Mr. G. Goes To England: Day 1

Looking for Big Ben out the plane window.

Mr. G. and I rarely get on an airplane together. Why fly when you can load up the car and take the dog with you? At least that's always my argument.

Last year, though, we went to London for our 10th wedding anniversary. We also went to York (or, as Glenn says it, Yawwwwk). We had such a good time so I thought I'd blog about it!

Plus, we don't have children to bore with our travel stories. And Bailey's really bored with London since she had to stay home.

But back to England. We went for a few reasons. One, it was our 10th wedding anniversary. Second, there's a direct flight between New Orleans and London. Third, we're not getting any younger. It's time to see the world instead of just talking about it.

The flight is long, but alcohol is free on international flights. Mr. G. shared this knowledge on the flight back with everyone around us. Some of them didn't know. He was voted MVP (most valuable passenger).

I skipped alcohol and food for as long as I could. I really didn't want to have to use the facilities. Then I couldn't fall asleep. I'd brilliantly chosen seats that didn't have any behind them so we wouldn't be kicked the entire way to London. They also happened to be next to the toilets. All I heard, all night long, was the bang of the bathroom door and the flush of the toilet. After yet another bang as someone wrestled with the door, I looked over at the guy across the aisle. He was snoring. The pocket in the airplane seat in front of him bulged with empty wine bottles (not the full size version, thank goodness). I buzzed for the flight attendant and asked if I could have a glass of white wine.

"Of course you can!!" the flight attendant exclaimed and patted me on the shoulder before sprinting down the aisle to fetch my wine. Really, British Airways is awesome. We also got hot tea like it was running water.

London!!! It seemed to rain at least once a day.

When he wasn't napping, Mr. G. tracked our progress on an electronic map on the back of his plane seat. As we approached London, he kept peering out the window for Big Ben. He thought it would be like when you're in the pirate ship flying over London in the Peter Pan's Flight ride at Walt Disney World.

Our first day in London was a half day. What we should have done was go to Notting Hill, visit Portobello Road (street where the ancients of ages are stored) and then done a pub crawl before hitting the Tate Modern.

Instead, we set off to find the Charles Dickens Museum, which no one in the entire city of London knows exists. No one - not a cop, not a store clerk, not even one of bicyclists who were everywhere because of a race. We got very, very lost and found it after the last tour had gone. The tea shop still was open, and Mr. G. soon was happy with a scone and a cup of tea while I wept into my guidebook.

Glenn insisted that we sneak upstairs to take a peek at the rooms. We were quickly discovered and nicely told to return downstairs. You can't take us anywhere.

So we went to the Tate Modern, purely because it was open late. And it was free!

The entrance to the Tate Modern. 

I'm not much for modern art. I'm not really much for art at all. I don't understand what makes one piece great and another piece Elvis on velvet. Still, I enjoy looking at art and finding something that catches my eye.

The Tate Modern was a madhouse. There were people everywhere. We were searched at the door, something to which we were getting accustomed. The queen probably gets searched when she turns up at Windsor.

We wandered aimlessly for a bit before deciding we needed a battle plan. There were so many floors and so many people. London in July is nuts.

In the cafe, we grabbed a seat, admired The Shard visible through the window in between the pelting rain and perused the guide. Once I saw the names "Picasso" and "Andy Warhol," my plan was set. Glenn would have been fine with going back to the hotel or finding a pub, but I wanted to see the sights! Darn it.

Andy Warhol's Marilyn!

To make a long story short, we never found the Picassos. That museum is big as I've mentioned. We did find the Andy Warhols. Then we wandered from room to room. My good friend Cynthia Faulkner - a world traveler - once told me that the way to visit an art museum is to walk into a room, stop, look around and see what grabs you. I've followed that advice ever since.

We saw a lot that we didn't like at the Tate. We saw a lot that had us questioning how it was deemed art. Then we turned the corner and stepped into a room that was completely dark except for a glowing tower of radios.

I don't how stacking radios into a tower constitutes art, but it grabbed us. We had so much fun going in circles around the tower and craning our necks to study radios from every era. In all, 800 radios make up the tower.

Our favorite exhibit at the Tate Modern.

The exhibit's official name is Babel 2001. I gather it's designed to mimic the Tower of Babel. Every radio talks at you in a different language. We just had fun spotting radios from our parents' days and our own teen-age years.

Saying goodbye

My grandmother with her eldest daughter, Olive Ann.

I'm pretty sure I know what Heaven is like. I think it's endless amounts of time in which you can sit not just reading a book - but thoroughly enjoying what you're reading - without worrying about the laundry or the bills or job security or people dying. Instead of endless goodbyes, it's a series of wonderful hellos as loved ones pop in to spend eternity with you. 

My granny had six children during her long life. She lived nearly a century so I thought those children also would live that long. I was wrong.

My aunt and uncles are together once again. Here are Olive, Albert and Herbert with baby Raymond.

Uncle Herbert died first. Then Uncle Raymond and Uncle Albert slipped away. Now Nanny's gone. They died one after the other, as if Granny were calling them to the Heaven one by one. Only my mom and Aunt Marilyn are left, and we're taking them to the doctor's office once a week from this point onward.

All their deaths were hard. Nanny's death, though, really hurts because she was my mom and aunt's best friend.

Nanny and Aunt Marilyn with my cousin Nick. In the background is my mother and baby Amber.

She wasn't even really my Nanny. She was my Aunt Olive who was supposed to be my godmother, but my parents never got around to baptizing any of us. Still, I always called her Nanny. Then my little sister started calling her Nanny. I think my younger cousins called her Nanny. The name stuck even though I knew in my heart of hearts that she was supposed to be my godmother - not theirs. I was honored to have such a connection to such a special person.

No one is a saint. We all have flaws. Somehow, though, Nanny was practically perfect in every way. Her kids have suffered a tremendous loss with her passing. The rest of us - sisters, nieces, nephews, etc. - are just very sad.

So beautiful - inside and out.

What can I tell you about Nanny? Pictures of her as a young girl show a stunningly beautiful person. If you think a young Elizabeth is a looker in "The Crown," then you haven't seen pictures of Nanny. She had to have been the prettiest girl on Bayou Boeuf.

She also was fun. She liked to dance and go to the Cut Grass in Morgan City. She'd wrap a scarf around the bedpost and practice her dance moves. She liked games and set a rule that Monopoly was to be played until someone actually won. Some of this I knew. Other things I learned after she died.

Nanny holding my Aunt Marilyn. 

Nanny married young and raised five kids. She was a voracious reader and liked to do crossword puzzles. She had a thing for knicknacks featuring lighthouses and mooses (meese?). She made the best vegetable soup in the world.

She seemed mild-mannered, but she had a backbone. She was kind and soft-spoken, but she had gumption. She also wasn't naive. That's a tough combination to master.

The Mona Lisa smile: Granny, my cousin Sheila and Nanny with a newborn Amber.

Looking through pictures in which Nanny posed with grandchildren and great-grandchildren as babies, I noticed something. In most of them, Nanny isn't looking at the camera but gazing at the baby with a Mona Lisa smile. It reminded me of the time she came to my house for a slumber party for my mother's birthday. Spotting a picture of her granddaughter Olivia on the kitchen wall, she asked if she could have a copy of it. She loved the expression Olivia made in the photo. Nanny had such a fondness and affection for babies, but especially, of course, for her grandchildren and her great-grandchildren.

Glenn and I went to England last year, and I asked my aunts what they wanted back. Nanny told my Aunt Marilyn that she wanted something with Princess Charlotte on it. I hunted in every tacky gift shop I saw until I finally found a key ring with Princess Charlotte's face on it. Later, Nanny said something had been garbled in the translation. She wanted Princess Charlotte herself.

Nanny was the eldest of my grandparents' three girls. My mom and her other sister, Aunt Marilyn, arrived nearly 20 years after Nanny was born. There are pictures of them as little girls holding Nanny's first child. Still, they were always very close to Nanny.

Aunts and cousins at the zoo. Nanny clowned around and covered her face with a camera. 

Nanny spent most of her adult life in Gibson. She lived in a snug little house that her husband, my Uncle Ricky, built. My grandmother eventually moved across the street.

When I was growing up, we'd go to my Granny's house and the dust would hardly have settled from the cars crunching into the shell driveway before my Mom and Aunt Marilyn were heading across the street for coffee at Nanny's. I didn't understand this for the longest time. Granny had coffee, but somehow Nanny's coffee was better. Really, they just wanted to settle onto the bar stools in Nanny's long kitchen and talk to her while she stood on the other side of the counter and smoked a cigarette.

Beautiful Nanny.

That's how I'll remember Nanny: in her kitchen. Guests were always on one side of the kitchen counter. Nanny was always on the other side, a cup of coffee or a cigarette in her hand. She'd pour the coffee and gently laugh at what her guests had to say.

What I also will remember most about Nanny is that everyone liked her. I never heard anyone say a negative thing about her. She didn't want a funeral because she didn't want people to be sad. That was probably a good decision because everyone is very sad that she's gone. There wouldn't have been enough Kleenex in the world to dry the tears at a funeral for her.

Gibson: a Louisiana town with tigers on a gold leash

To me, this is Cajun country and pure beauty.

Did you know that Gibson in Terrebonne Parish used to be known as Tigerville because tigers once roamed the woods outside the bayou town?

A religious statue inside the former St. Patrick's Catholic Church in Gibson. The church was open on a recent weekend, allowing me to wallow in childhood memories. 

Actually, it's not at all true that tigers once roamed Gibson, Louisiana. The fact of the matter is that Cajuns can't tell the difference between a tiger and a bobcat. Sorry, but there were no tigers on a gold leash in early 1800s rural Louisiana.

This home had to have been gorgeous once upon a time. Now it's falling apart.

Still, there are two towns in Louisiana that once were named Tigerville: Gibson in Terrebonne Parish and the still-named Tigerville in St. John the Baptist Parish. Silly Cajuns. One Cajun says "Sha, there's a tiger in the woods; then another Cajun says "Sha, there's a tiger in the woods." Then the town is named after the "tiger" in the woods.

Up this 'hill' used to be a house that my mother was convinced was haunted. We were surprised on a recent visit to find the house gone. Where did it go?

The "Tigerville" that I know is the one in Terrebonne Parish, just down the road from Houma. It's been called Gibson for as long as I can remember. I have a fondness for Gibson that probably is a little strange given that I never lived there.

Granny's house in Gibson before the screened in porch was added. Here's Granny with one of her many, many dogs from over the years. Granny's house was bought and moved by another family.

Gibson was where my Granny lived in the bend of Mary Street. She lived in a three bedroom trailer with a screened in porch on the side and a yard big enough for a garden. The refrigerator - for decades, it seemed - was a brown, side-by-side model that always had popsicles in the freezer. The couch had pictures of the grandchildren in graduation gowns lined across the back. There were many, many grandchildren (let's see if I can get this right): Gerlinde, Greg, Helen, Mark, Anthony, Shannon, Mitzi, Rick, Scott, Sheila, Kim, Nick, Michelle, Linda, John and Jesse.

Uncle Albert and my cousin Mark in front of the built in cabinet that was in the corner of Granny's living room.

My mother once told me that Mary Street was never supposed to be Mary Street. It was supposed to be Carroll Street, which intersects with Mary Street. The sign got turned around, and no one thought to turn it back in the current direction. So the street with the church on it became Carroll Street, and the street with the homes on it became Mary Street. Given that the church was called St. Patrick, I'm not sure this story is true. But, trust me, it could absolutely be true.

This used to be the post office. It had an entire wall of postal boxes. No one had a mailbox by their house in Gibson. Later, after a new post office was built across the bridge, this became a beauty shop. Now it's someone's home. 

There isn't much to Gibson these days except for decaying houses and tons of trailers. My Nanny's house is neat and trim, but other houses just are falling down. Carroll Street used to be the main street of the town. It had a post office, grocery store, beauty parlor and church. Now only the church remains, and it's a Hispanic Catholic Church instead of the Catholic Church of yore.

Gibson Elementary School. I've always wondered how old this building is. 

When I say there isn't much to Gibson these days what I mean is there isn't much of the Gibson that I remember from my childhood. Most of the people that my Granny knew are dead. For the most part, their homes are abandoned. Some lovely homes remain. Gibson is a town in which people like to build piers along the bayou. Very often, an alligator will swim up to your pier.

The best house in Gibson! This is my Nanny's house. Nanny, by the way, is Cajun for godmother. Can you spot the dog in the window? My cousin's British twin lived underneath this house. Inside story.

The town itself is pretty country. For the longest time, you only had to dial four numbers to reach anyone else in Gibson. There was no need for the prefix.

The old bridge has been closed for years. It's owned by the parish which put it up for sale. It didn't draw a buyer. Because of its design and engineering, the bridge is considered eligible for the National Register of Historic Places. 

Gibson has a bridge across the bayou that you used to be able to drive across. As a child, that bridge was so cool to me because you could drive or ... (wait for it) ... walk across it. It had a pedestrian walkway right alongside the driving portion. How cool is that? You can still walk across the bridge (did so on a recent Saturday!), but you can't drive across it. The parish closed the bridge years ago and recently put it up for sale. Bye to another piece of Gibson history.

The Walther house. The Walthers came from France and owned a general store in Gibson (not the store on Carroll Street but a different store). Unlike most of the residents of Gibson, the Walthers were Methodist, which made them an exotic species. 

Speaking of the bridge, Gibson is largely an island. It is hemmed in by Bayou Black, Donner Canal and Tiger Bayou (tigers again!). I say "largely" because there are sections of Gibson that aren't on the island, including the cemetery.  Where the church is used to be a small island. Once upon a time, Carroll Street was a channel. The channel was filled in.

Beautiful St. Patrick's Church. I don't know what it's called now, but take a peek inside if you're ever in the area. There's an organ loft and an actual confessional. 

On a recent trip to visit Nanny, I asked my mother to take me around Gibson so I could take pictures and hear the town's history. "OK," she said. "This is going to take about two minutes." And it did.

I lit a candle for my Granny, but I didn't have the 50 cent offering on me so my aunt says it didn't count.

I loved Gibson as a kid because everything was so close. The church, store and post office were just down the street. The school, cemetery and the one really grand house were across the bridge. At some point, a library was built in the parking lot of the school. Granny and Nanny (my beloved aunt who lived across the street from Granny) were ecstatic. They no longer had to wait for the bookmobile to swing through town.

Stained glass windows inside St. Patrick's. 

The church has a long history. It was first built in 1876 only to be knocked down by a hurricane. A second church was built in 1889. It, too, was knocked down by a hurricane. A third church was built in 1892. Guess what happened to it? Yep, it was knocked down by a hurricane.

The organ loft inside St. Patrick's. This church was greatly loved.

A fourth church went up. It was knocked down ... by a fire (surprised you, huh?) in 1940. So the current church dates to 1940, and it's not really St. Patrick. It's actually St. Rita, which once stood in New Orleans only to be taken apart, stained glass, pews and all, and taken to Gibson, where it was rebuilt like a set of Lincoln Logs.

The Walthers' store. It's since been moved and no longer is in Gibson. 

There are other churches in Gibson, but the most distinct one is the Methodist church. This little squat building is on the National Register. I've never stepped foot in it. I always wanted to, but Granny was convinced it was the Walthers' church and that mere Catholics weren't allowed inside. Or so she said.

Gibson's Methodist church. 

The little church has a cemetery with a really odd brick structure. I don't know what that thing is. It could be a tomb, but it has trees growing on the roof.

What the heck is this thing? 

Nowadays, the post office and a much bigger library are across the bridge near the Methodist church. The old post office is someone's house. The store is closed and crumbling - no more grabbing an orange soda and gingerbread planks. Even the house at the top of the hill that my mother and my aunt thought was haunted is gone. The old Melancon house still is there, but it's deserted and surrounded by campers.

The old store sold gingerbread planks with pink icing. It is really deteriorating.

My favorite house in Gibson was always Miss Teen's house. I once had dreams of moving Miss Teen's house, fixing it up and turning it into a writer's cabin. How cool would that be? Now there's a tree growing through Miss Teen's house so it's probably not going to happen! Teen was short for Clementine. She was friends with my Granny. I don't know much about Miss Teen other than that she was a widow who missed her husband very much.

Miss Teen's house has definitely seen better days. 

Miss Teen's husband died in 1966. She died in 1992. She had a long wait to be reunited with him. Her house was a shotgun shack. If you fired a shotgun through the front door, the bullet would go through the house and right out the back door. One room flowed into the next room. There were three main rooms: Living room, bedroom and kitchen with a bathroom tacked on right off the kitchen. What was sweet about Miss Teen's house were the added touches. There was decorative woodwork in the kitchen and a nice little porch swinging out on the side of the house.

Another gorgeous old home in Gibson. 

Gibson was named for Randall Lee Gibson whose family had several sugar plantations in the area. Randall was born in Kentucky but grew up in Louisiana. He studied at Yale and became a U.S. senator. It was Randall who convinced the townspeople to stop calling the place Tigerville. Maybe he knew the "tigers" were actually bobcats.

A beautiful bayou scene in Gibson. 

While visiting Yale's hometown of New Haven, Conn., Randall envisioned great things for Tigerville. "What will be the condition of our government when Tigerville becomes as large as New Haven and its citizens as intelligent?" he wrote.

Another Gibson home. By the way, this house looks exactly like the home Great Aunt Ethel lived in a few miles away. Even the color is the same. This was Mrs. Porche's house. She was a schoolteacher at nearby Gibson Elementary. 

No worries. Tigerville/Gibson hasn't yet become the New Haven of the South.

Another abandoned home: This used to be the Authement house. 

It's just a beautiful bayou town whose history is becoming lost as buildings are allowed to deteriorate.

A birthday trip to a ghost town on very little gas

The ghost town of Rodney is absolutely magical.

I like to get off the beaten path. Mr. G. likes to stay on the beaten path. But he's gotten braver since discovering Google Maps (although he insists that the Google Maps on his phone is soooo much better than the Google Maps on my phone). Plus, it was my birthday weekend (and Bailey was with us) so I won the vote to get off the beaten path.

If this house wasn't choked by weeds, it almost looks like someone could live here.

I don't know when I stumbled across Rodney, Miss. It's a ghost town not far from Natchez. Ghost town probably isn't even the right phrase for it. There are somewhere between three and 13 people who live there (depends on who you ask). If I had to guess, the population swells and dwindles depending on deer season.

I love this picture of two women posing so elegantly together. It was taken in the town of Rodney in 1940. The Library of Congress has a number of historic photos of Rodney.

Rodney almost became the capitol of Mississippi. It lost by three votes. Rodney also used to be on the banks of the Mississippi River. Old Man River is fickle, though, and shifted two miles away from Rodney. Toss in a few yellow fever outbreaks, and Rodney just dwindled away.

As kids, we thought this church tower in Taylortown was haunted by a suicidal bride.  As you can see, it's not very tall so I don't know why we thought anyone could jump to their death from here.

Lots of small towns die. It seems to be the way of the world. I grew up not far from a town called Taylortown. There's not much to Taylortown these days except for a church tower that we were always told was haunted by the ghost of a bride who jumped to her death from that very tower after her bridegroom jilted her on their wedding day (or something like that). Turns out that whole story is hogwash. Who's surprised?

It's hard to believe that Rodney once had several newspapers.

Rodney, though, once was home to 4,000 people. It had newspapers, a jail, several churches, a park for band concerts, a drugstore and perhaps even an opera house.

Zachary Taylor loved the Rodney area. One of his daughters married Jefferson Davis only to die three months later outside St. Francisville, not far from Rodney.

Zachary Taylor's home was near Rodney until it tumbled into the river. Supposedly, Taylor was whiling away the evening in a Rodney home when he got the news that he had been elected president of the United States.

This map is based on a number of sources. It's an imagining of what Rodney looked like over the years and is not historically accurate. 

A map found on the town's Facebook remembrance page shows Rodney was a town of riverboat landings and people who could walk to work. The Alstons had a store in front of their home. Further down the road was the Old Alston House. The Shobers' bakery stood in front of their home. There was a drugstore and a saloon, warehouses, a bank and a school.

We saw no evidence of the "Church Street" that once existed alongside the Presbyterian church, but we did see the famous cannonball. During the Civil War, the church's minister was a Union sympathizer. He invited Union officers assigned to the USS Rattler steamship to Sunday services. The officers accepted the invitation and were sitting with the congregation listening to the sermon when Confederate soldiers stormed the church and started arresting them. Those left behind on the USS Rattler soon noticed the hubbub and fired a cannon at the church. A replica of the cannonball is there, in the church's masonwork, to this day.

Eudora Welty had a fascination with rural Mississippi. Here she is in front of Windsor Ruins. 

Eudora Welty wrote about Rodney. It pops up again and again in her writings.

So I was determined to find Rodney during a recent trip to Natchez. I was determined to find it even though I'm scared of rattlesnakes and the woods around Rodney supposedly are thick with them (and alligators when it floods). I also brought my dog with me, figuring I'd leave her in the safety of the car (because God knows where the nearest vet would be if she got bitten by a snake). Naturally, Mr. G. kept taking her out of the car far too close to the high grass until I insisted that he pick her up. It was my birthday after all!

Astonishing Windsor Ruins.

On the way to Rodney, we stopped at Windsor Ruins, where a houseguest flicked cigar ashes into a pile of debris in 1890 and burned the entire house down. And what a house it was! Today only the columns remain.

You can take Rodney Road or the other Rodney Road to get to Rodney. What's the confusion? Actually, I believe Rodney Road takes a very sharp turn and continues on as Rodney Road. 

I had printed out the scant Internet directions to Rodney before leaving Baton Rouge. I also plugged it into the Google Maps. Surprisingly, Google Maps seemed to know where Rodney is.

Here's the thing about driving with Mr. G. He never slows down. So the entrances to interstates, restaurants, hotels, shops, etc. whiz on past. Even screaming "There, there, turn there" before he whizzes past the second entrance doesn't help.

We were supposed to get onto the Natchez Trace from the Windsor Ruins and kiss our last bit of civilization fondly before making the turn onto the back roads. Mr. G. whizzed right past the Natchez Trace and blamed my phone for not telling him soon enough that he needed to turn. Like he would've been listening or going slow enough for that to matter. But I digress.

Next time, country store!

Finally, we got turned around and onto the Natchez Trace in the correct direction and then into Lorman, where apparently there is a famous country store that anyone who is anyone eats at. I didn't know what it was, but I suggested stopping there and making sure we had the correct directions before heading into the woods. Mr. G. was having none of it.

"I thought you printed out directions," he said, whizzing past the country store at a clip.

Even when you're lost, nothing beats a dirt, country road. 

Then we promptly got lost. I don't know if Google Maps was having a disagreement with itself or what. The program seemed to change its mind about how to get to Rodney, leading us on a wild goose chase before setting us in the right direction.

Finally, somehow, we were whizzing down the right road when Mr. G. made an announcement.

Mr. G.: We're running low on gas.

Me: How low?

Mr. G.: We can go about 20 miles.

Me: TWENTY MILES?

Mr. G.: Yeah, but I'm sure there's a gas station around here somewhere.

Me: Freaking city boys.

OK, I didn't say that. I just thought it. Sure, there's a gas station out in the middle of nowhere. It's rush hour in the woods. Who wouldn't put a gas station out there for the 2 or 3 cars that pass once a month?

The old Presbyterian church. Once I saw it, I knew we were in Rodney. Above the middle window on the second floor is the replica of a Civil War-era cannonball that once was lodged there until it mysteriously disappeared. 

When we pulled into Rodney, both of us were a little cranky. Bailey was bouncy, eager to jump out of the car and frolic in the tall grass that was no doubt full of snakes and ticks.

And we'll have fun, fun, fun until Mom sees Bailey's in the tall grass. 

There is not much to Rodney these days. The first semi-presentable building we saw was the old brick church. Behind it, up a hill, apparently is the cemetery. There was no way that I was venturing up that hill in tall grass. I wanted to try to get into the church itself, but it was roped off. So I admired it from afar, looking at the cannonball embedded in the brickwork.

The old Masonic Hall. It's seen better days.

Across from the church is the old Masonic Hall. The door was wide open. Knowing it had flooded recently, I didn't go inside. Then we wandered down the road a bit and discovered newish looking trailers on very tall pilings. Apparently Rodney isn't a ghost town.

This house looks like the front of it was shaved off. A collection of old glassware remains. 

In the opposite direction is an old store that still has a gas pump. Turning around, I saw a wooden church down a dusty lane. In that moment, the grid of the old town came into focus for me. A road still runs in front of the wooden church. Next to the church is a house that looks like it almost could be habitable if you could hack through the weeds. It's all very "Fried Green Tomatoes" (and I mean that with no disrespect; it's so sad to me that towns shrivel up. The Gibson, Louisiana, I knew as a child is gone - post office, country store, church. One day soon, no one will remember that my Granny and Miss Teen liked to take evening walks and talk in Cajun French or that Midnight Mass used to be held on Christmas Eve in the little white church with the priest receiving a gift-wrapped microwave from the congregation one year).

Only later did I read that this church is infested with rats. Still, someone needs to save this building! It can't hold on for much longer. 

I did walk inside the wooden church (apparently the old Baptist church). I knew it had flooded badly earlier this year so I didn't venture far in. I didn't want to fall through rotten floorboards. Later I read that the wooden church is infested with rats. I like rats about as much as I like poisonous snakes so I'm glad that I just peeked into the sanctuary from the hallway.

This was a pretty screened-in porch at one time. 

Despite the few residents still holding on, Rodney is a town that is slowly crumbling in the wilds of the Mississippi woods. It can't last much longer. Time and the floods have made the old buildings unstable. One building looked like the front had been sheared off, leaving it much like a dilapidated dollhouse. Other buildings were tucked too far off the road for us to get a good look, but given that they were heavily obscured by tall grass, their condition probably isn't good.

If the buildings could be moved, they would make a heck of an attraction much like LSU's Rural Life Museum. Keep in mind that the Baptist church dates to 1850. The Presbyterian church is even older. I'm not sure how old the store is, but it's not falling down. Yet.

This was the way of life for so many in the rural south. There were no Wal-Marts or fast food restaurants. My grandmother didn't drive a car. She walked to the store, the post office and church. Everything was within walking distance because it needed to be. When you could catch a ride, you'd go into the city and buy your groceries more cheaply, but for the most part you didn't venture far from home.

Bye, Rodney!

Mr. G. was getting restless - and tired of holding Bailey - so we moved along. We weren't going back to Windsor Ruins. We were going to Natchez. We plugged the hotel into the GPS and - surprise, surprise - it took us a very different way than the way we came.

Now the sane way to get from Rodney to Natchez would have been to just backtrack. We'd have gone down the Rodney Road that turns into Firetower Road. But Google Maps was feeling like Gertrude and wanted the scenic route.

The scenic route did include this interesting building! It kind of looks like an old jail.

So off we went down a different Rodney Road toward Noble Swamp Road. We passed more abandoned buildings, a nice farmhouse and a community of mobile homes that looked suspiciously like a deer camp. We were deep in the country, whizzing past fields of crops. It was spectacularly beautiful except it felt like we were actually in the fields.

Absolute beauty!

We continued on until we could no longer recognize a road. We came to a fork. In one direction was a muddy dip that we couldn't possibly cross. In the other direction were fields. We really didn't have enough gas to backtrack, but we decided that we were backtracking. If worse came to worse, we'd let Triple A - or law enforcement - figure out how to find us.

Then Glenn decided to drive into the deer camp and beg for help. Softly, in the background, came the sound of banjos playing.

Just kidding! Mr. G. drove into the camp and came across two men backing a four wheeler off a truck. He threw himself on their mercy while I clutched my dog to me like she was a string of pearls.

It turns out that they were the nicest people ever. One of the guys came over and looked at the gas gauge. He assured us that we had enough to make it into "town." Hoisting a shovel onto his shoulder, he said he had to go dig a hole but would let us follow him into town in 10 minutes.

He dug the hole (I have no idea why he needed a hole), climbed into his truck and led us out of the camp and - thankfully - back toward Rodney Road. We were following strangers on the back roads of Mississippi. I didn't say a word to them, and I feel bad about that now. I was nervous about being lost and running out of gas.

All turned out well. They dropped us in Fayette, where we coasted on fumes into a gas station. Jesse James, by the way, once robbed Fayette. Maybe next year we'll visit Fayette. There's so much to discover when you get off the beaten path!