So, there we were, 400 passengers and all our luggage lined up at the top of the dock. The scene was reminiscent of a breakout from the old folk’s home. (Keeping in mind that Lyd and I are probably the youngest passengers and that the median age onboard is closer to 78 than to 68). The transition was abrupt. Everyone had to be off the boat by 8:00 AM. Folks milled around as one boat representative prodded disoriented seniors towards appropriate buses. We were labeled as independents, meaning we were on our own. (In college I was a GDI so it was nothing new.) We called for a taxi, which took us to our car rental. Apparently, they were not prepared for all the car requests coming from the dock. Though I had confirmed reservation, we waited nearly two hours for ours to be ready. In the end, we were given a mini-van and toured Memphis like a pair of soccer parents.

Our first stop was the National Civil Rights Museum, built as an attachment to the motel where Dr. King was assassinated. From high school Lydia and I have been active in civil rights activity. It is what we believe and how we live. As we toured the museum timeline, listened to his final speeches, and watched the post death reactions, we were back to one of the most meaningful times of our young lives. We were in tears. I don’t think that we expected to be quite so moved. We’d seen the newsreels often enough, the pictures of Dr. King on the balcony, the still of his companions pointing to the boardinghouse window seconds after the shot. To stand at the spot was different. It brought back all the feelings of sorrow and disappointment. Of hope crushed with the death of one man, though forever linked emotionally, for me, with the deaths of John Kennedy and his brother Robert.

The clouds cleared and the sun came out as we began our meander down Beale Street. It was still early and many clubs were not open yet. Sidewalk barkers coaxed us to try their menus or their gigantic to-go beers. We were eager to try Memphis BBQ and finally settled on a place called simply “Pig”.  It was mildly disappointing. We ordered a sampler plate. The pulled pork was meltingly good, as was the bbq chicken. The ribs were like dried pork jerky. The coleslaw a compact ball of what I suppose was cabbage though it didn’t taste like it.

From there we wandered, stopped by a park for a bit then found a Kroger’s for some groceries. I was the only Caucasian in the store, just me, one little, fat short guy with a cane and a wheeze.

We’ve wound our day down at our downtown upscale apartment (sometimes I just get lucky in my odd ball reservations.)

The river is behind us and a land journey ahead. The day left us with much to think about.

Blessings

Posts The Road