Aging Ink

“Call me ‘Scil’,” she offered. “Short for ‘Priscilla’. My mother had a thing for pretentious names, and I was never much of a ‘Priscilla’.”

Writing is the only profession where no one considers you ridiculous if you earn no money.
— Jules Renard

Leaving the Mississippi Delta, I determined to find the marker on the Blues Trail that honoured Son House. It was supposed to be near Tunica — in town, I thought, probably along Highway 61 somewhere, or in the old downtown area. Couldn’t find it. Someone must know… I pulled in at the angle-parking along the main drag in front of an antiques shop. Antique dealers should know something of a place’s heritage, and probably won’t be too busy to give directions. Seemed like a good bet.  Continue Reading →