Mississippi Freezing

The whole of the Midwest is in the iron grip of the Cold Witch. Every newspaper from Chicago on south trumpets winter mayhem in the form of burst water mains and road accidents. The highway looks dry and bare to our Canadian eyes, but we see three cars fresh in the ditch. Luckily the snow seems to soften their landings.

We’re in the plains, and the driving goes on and on under a huge grey sky. We’re sustained by beef jerky and the mix CDs you made us.



It grows warmer as we move south. We spot our first green grass in a field by the highway, but the pond is still frozen and speckled with patches of snow like the back of a leopard frog.

Police seem to be everywhere. We pass a speed trap with no fewer than seven squad cars stopping southbound drivers. We pull into a rest area and park next to a minivan labeled ‘State of Illinois Corrections.’ Through the smoked glass windows you can see the silhouette of a prisoner. The shape of his head instantly reminds me of a pastel sketch on the cover of a Robert Johnson LP Pete owned in high school. I keep flashing back to my ordeal at the border, and my horrifying hour in the clutches of the Homeland Security apparatus. Later we pass a full-size corrections bus with metal grille windows six inches high. The sense of oppression lasts until we see the sunset over the Mississippi.