The Natchez Curse

The road through Natchez, Mississippi has found us more than once. We are still trying to figure out whose mama we must have insulted there in a past life, because we cannot seem to go anywhere near the place without some kind of calamity falling on our bewildered heads.

October of 2018 found us wandering around Mississippi in search of any crumbs of information that may have been left by the pirate Jean Laffite in the 1830’s when he sneaked his way back into the country and reinvented himself as a traveling salesman of sorts, specializing in deals made under the table, marriages that only lasted fifteen minutes, and grass that never had time to grow under his feet.

In the process, we were going to pass so close to Natchez that I insisted we veer from our route and go have a look. Not that we had much of a plan, but on this afternoon, Ashley’s hopes were pegged on a hotel and a nap, while mine ran more along the lines of live oaks and old houses. The twain had not a snowball’s chance of meeting, but I talked her into allowing me an hour.

“You won’t even have to get out of the car. I’ll just jump out, grab a few photos here and there, and we’re clear.” Laffite research be damned, I could not travel that close to one of the South’s most iconic locations for historic architecture and fail to uphold my duties as the lone photographer for Southern Voice.

My daughter rolled her eyes. She had heard the promise before. It had not worked out well.