The other night a bunch of us were sitting around and somebody asked me what it means when somebody says the “Deep South.” She said she’d heard of it but didn’t know what it meant and I laughed, telling her that was what was generally referred to when they talked about the lower half of Georgia, Alabama and most of Mississippi and Louisiana.

I told her Florida never did much count because it was too hot there to grow cotton and that Arkansas and Texas weren’t included because anything on the other side of the Mississippi River was “way out west.”

Well, this lady still didn’t understand about the Cotton Belt, the sprawling Delta and such, and finally I told her that real long ago I went there sometimes because during a time way back when, I grew up as “a child of the South.” So on a day when I can’t find much to interest me besides Kansas getting beat in the NCAA’s “Big Dance,” let me share with you what it was like long ago when my daddy would take me back to “the home place.”

My dad was from a tiny place called Vaughn, Mississippi. His family owned a plantation down in central Mississippi between Yazoo City and Canton – about two hours drive on the two-lane from Jackson - and when I was real little we’d go down there sometimes for a week or two.

This was way before my sisters were born, back when I only wore short pants, and when you’d turn off the black top and cross over the long steel pipes of the “cattle gate,” you would proceed about a quarter mile down the long drive past all the pecan trees until you’d get to the big house.

It was huge, the whole thing built up on brick pillars about four feet off the ground. That’s what kept it cool during the summer months and the dogs would all spend the night under there. Off each corner of the house were the bedrooms, each built across the open porch that circled the main house because each had its own fireplace.

There was no heating system. There were no bathrooms. Instead of plumbing, there was a chamber pot under the bed. In each bedroom there was a big bowl with a large pitcher of water on the dresser and, after you poured the water to wash your face and brush your teeth, you’d carefully take the dirty water in the bowl out on the porch and toss it down on the rose bushes.

Now the way it would work was that if you had to “go,” you’d take the lid off the chamber pot underneath the bed and do your business. It had a big ceramic lid – laugh all you want – but this is the way it was. If it was good enough for Queen Isabella, it worked fine for me.

When night would come there would be a bright fire set in every fireplace and me and my brothers would crawl underneath about three inches of quilts on what was called a feather bed. This was a mattress-like thing that felt like the biggest pillow in the world. Well, you’d nestle down and soon sleep divine.

About five o’clock the next morning the fire would have long since died down and Mr. Mott Harris would steal his way through the darkness of the room, throw some split logs on the embers and use the poker just so to bring the heat back to life. The new wood, cracking and popping as it lit, would literally wake you up. Then, within about 30 minutes you’d climb out of the big four-poster bed because it was warm enough to get dressed.

The big house would still be dark and chilly when you’d worm through – the inside fireplaces were already “laid” but not yet lit because it was still early. The busy kitchen was in the back, again divided by a porch also in case of fire, and the warmth would almost knock you down from the huge stove.

There would already be a plate of hot biscuits, this about an hour still until breakfast, and one of the women would slather them with butter and then put a pound of fig preserves on one so thick you’d forget to say your morning prayers. Everybody called me “Child” and I’d just giggle.

All the water, of course, came from the cistern, which was this well-like thing about 20 feet outside the kitchen’s side door. You draw the water with a bucket on a rope to wash the fig preserves off your fingers. Any leftover food would end up in the slop bucket, also outside the kitchen, which would later be carried to the hogs. I’d always throw my hand-washing water in it so the hogs wouldn’t have to crunch hard biscuits.

Mr. Mott Harris, who back then it was told was wanted for murder in Yazoo City, taught me to shoot guns. He’d take me hunting most mornings, rabbits usually, and if I dared draw down of a song bird, even a blue jay, he’d slap the gun out of my hand before I’d pull.

If the hunting was lean we’d go to one of the big ponds and shoot snakes. It was more fun to watch the dogs dispatch a reptile, the huge dogs Price and Jess evermore hated them, but Mott was a good teacher and I plugged my share. We hunted a lot, me and Mott and my brothers, and once when I fell with my gun straddling a fence, Mott blew the clog out of the barrel with his snuff-covered lips. That’s how close we were.

One time one of the dogs got “hit” by a water moccasin. The dog’s muzzle was swollen something fierce and Mott had to use turpentine compresses or the dog would have died. I was so mad my Winchester and I made every snake in central Mississippi pay. (And the girl listening had never even heard of turpentine.)

Every afternoon Mott would carry all of us down to Mr. Tot Jackson’s store and we’d get a cold drink. The drink box had a pool of ice water circulating about eight inches deep in it where the Orange Crush, the Grapette and the High-C would be chilling. You would draw out whatever your taste wanted, slick off the water with your hand and crack off the top. Boy, would it ever taste fine.

The biggest thing that ever happened in Vaughn was one night when Casey Jones wrecked the train. That’s right, there is where it happened – look it up if you want. They buried his hat and gloves in the Virgin Ninetta’s yard. I never found out much about Miss Ninetta, but that’s what everybody called her when they’d give directions. Besides, she was some kin and I dared not ask.

So, yes, I not only know what the Deep South is, I’ve actually been there a time or two. And to this day, I’ll never forget the “pop-pop” of that two-cylinder John Deere coming down the long drive from the fields because soon Mr. Mott Harris would be taking me to Mr. Todd Jackson’s store for a cold drink.

Then again, that was a real long time ago and, sadly, I can’t remember all there is to really be said about it.

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