Ghost hunters

Last night Lady Sarah Saint rolled into town for a visit, and we spent the evening eating apple wedges and drinking a vast array of wine and beer and making the obligatory 2:45 a.m. trek to the Circle K before they chained the beer cave. I made said trek in flip-flops and yoga pants covered in cat hair, but I was too tipsy to care.

We talked a lot about relationships and loneliness and men and other things that wouldn't be polite to recap of a family blog such as this one. We did not solve the world's problems. Sorry, everyone. But we did agree that Josh Ritter sings a damn fine ballad.

And somehow, while talking about weird bits of Corinth and Memphis lore, I mentioned Voodoo Village, and we excitedly made a plan to drive down to Mary Angela Drive and see what all the fuss was about once we'd slept and sobered up.

So this afternoon, I drug myself out of bed and we had breakfast for lunch at CK's on Poplar (what better to sop up excess alcohol than a delicious waffle) and got psyched up for the trip. All I've ever read about Voodoo Village is that the people really, really hate it when onlookers come and try to take pictures, and that people who do so often get approached by angry residents. And who can blame them, I guess. It is pretty rude to gawk at people's private property and titter about what must be going on there. But I kept trying to think of it as being on the same level as stopping to take pictures of someone's Christmas decorations; you have a lawn full of brightly colored crap and people are going to gawk. As long as we gawk from the street, it's perfectly legal.

Anyway, the closer we got to the village, the more nervous we got about it. I don't know why. Probably just because we'd built it up so much in our minds, and all the info out there is just dripping with the makings of cheesy urban lore that it just felt touristy and weird, but I think we also were genuinely worried that we might be doing something stupid.

So, we turned off Shelby Drive onto Mary Angela, and instantly things got so much creepier; the road is narrow and there are no lines or sidewalks. Trees loom high along the side of the street. Knowing it's a dead-end street just gnawed at my gut. And then we saw this:



And lots more stuff — brightly colored crosses and starburst patterns and weird totem pole things — but we were too busy having a mild freakout to take better photos. And then we totally chickened out and, as soon as we passed the big iron gate — which was closed — that leads to the compound, we backed up in the street Austin Powers-style while two dogs barked their crazy dog heads off at us. And then we hightailed it outta there and felt totally stupid for chickening out and not driving all the way down to the end of the road and coming back up, as our thirst for the supernatural had not quite been sated. Which led us to going to hang out at Elmwood for a good half hour before they closed the gates.

Just some Sunday afternoon ghost hunting. Perfectly normal.