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Most folks already know that Willie has a soft spot for the blues. Not the guitar-screaming, amp-melting modern kind, but the real blues. The kind that reaches down into your ribcage, grabs your soul by the collar, and reminds you of every heartbreak you’ve ever had, including the one caused by running out of barbecue.
Over the years, he’s introduced me to the greats. Thanks to YouTube, I’ve met long-gone legends brought back to life. They wail, moan, and testify, while I sit in my fuzzy socks sipping tea. It’s an odd pairing, but somehow it works.
Recently, we had to leave the ridge for what I like to call a “genealogical gallivant.” The goal was to chase down ancestral ghosts via courthouse records, crumbling documents, and a few headstones old enough to make Dracula blush. The route stretched as far west as Missouri and as far south as Alabama.
Now, if you’re not up on your Southern geography, Alabama and Mississippi are next-door neighbors. Which meant Willie had currency. His deal was simple: I get my archives, he gets his blues. He chauffeured me from one dusty records repository to the next, with me tapping away on my laptop and him humming along like my personal soundtrack to genealogy. Then, for his reward, we detoured to Ground Zero in Clarksdale, Mississippi. This is his all-time favorite blues club and, quite possibly, his spiritual home.
But this time, there was a twist. Willie knew that the crossroads — yes, that crossroads — was somehow officially marked. The same mythical intersection where Robert Johnson supposedly sold his soul to the devil for the gift of the blues. We usually go ghost-hunting for me, but this time it was for Willie.
It was worth the stop. The hair on Willie’s arms stood straight up, and for a moment, I swear the radio tuned itself to 1936. Somewhere out there, an ancient flattop Gibson guitar moaned… and I think the devil might’ve tapped his foot.