the Ritz we ain't

read below b-4 you call with any of these questions

rates --- click here 
discounts --- try motel 6 or 8
AC and heat --- yes, both of them
running water --- both hot and cold
indoor bathrooms --- yes, 1 in each unit
coffee, condiments and microwave --- yes 
Room service --- call the Peabody in Memphis
Phone & fax service --- call a Comfort Inn anywhere
Sheet thread count --- NO KIDDING FOLKS, SOME CRAZY LADY ASKED THIS QUESTION...call the Alluvian in Greenwood, they really have the good ones
Wake up call --- yea right, automatic one minute after check out time, it consist of a foot on your door at 11:01 AM
Breakfast --- a mini moon pie
Beer --- No beer license due to something... most shacks have a cold one sitting in the fridge left by the previous shacker...

The shotgun house plays a role in the folklore and culture of the south. Superstition holds that ghosts and spirits are attracted to shotgun houses because they may pass straight through them, and that some houses were built with doors intentionally misaligned to deter these spirits. They also often serve as a convenient symbol of life in the south. Elvis Presley was born in a shotgun house, the Neville Brothers grew up in one, and Robert Johnson is said to have died in one. Shortly before his death in May 1997, Jeff Buckley rented a shotgun house in Memphis and was so enamored with it he contacted the owner about the possibility of buying it. Dream Brother, David Browne's biography on Jeff and Tim Buckley, opens with a description of this shotgun house and Jeff's fondness of it.

shack  (shk) A small, crudely built cabin; a shanty. intr.v. shacked, shacking, shacks To live or dwell: farm hands shacking in bunkhouses. Idiom: shack up Slang 1. To sleep together or live in sexual intimacy without being married. 2. To live, room, or stay at a place: I'm shacking up with my cousin till I find a place of my own.

FAQ--The Shackmeister Files

Who are the nuts that put this thing together?

The Shackmeisters did.

Who are the Shackmeisters?

They are a tight knit fabric of international intrigue, untold wealth and brilliant luminaries of titanic proportion in the hospitality industry. They banded together a few years ago to promote the shacks to a waiting world. Magnetically drawn together, these financial visionaries saw the future as clear as a 12-pack vision. "If we build the shacks, they will come" Now, nine years into this mind-boggling and backbreaking venture, the tourists have come. The Shackmeisters have amassed a veritable cornucopia of southern culture, AKA CRAP, that now adorns the universally known compound, proof positive the "cypress five" have the Midas touch.

With NASDAQ nipping at their heels and a PBS, (pure bull shit), documentary in the works, the Shackmeisters have agreed to reveal "part" of their lives to an inquisitive world. Here is a word to the wise; the IPO is likely June of 2062. Their life stories, by necessity, have been cloaked in mystery and shrouded with international suspense, until now.

Bill Talbot aka Mr. Bill…He is our only partner hailing from Dublin,MISS the first of MANY international connections weaving in and out of the Shackmeisters lives. Mr. Bill won $26.00 at the ISLE OF CAPRI slot machines then went online seeking and finding ways to invest his newly gotten gains. With uncanny business acumen, he has turned dozens of dollars into an offshore banking empire that he founded to handle his personal funds that roll in hand over proverbial fist. Now firmly entrenched in full-blown retirement, Mr. Bill is often seen mowing the grass in a Forest Gump like fashion, completely content with his successes and the turf he tends.

Guy Malvezzi ak47... is the all-knowing ex-head of a worldwide shoe conglomerate; Guy brought keen marketing skills to the shack table. With an ever-present finger on the pulse of the American and WORLD WIDE public, he has taken shack up inn from the ranks of obscurity and uplifted it to the status of being an international household word. He is now brokering a deal with an international concern, that for now will remain nameless, that within the year could very well lead to an upscale international hotel chain to be called McShack Up Inn or maybe even the Cotton Gin Inn..


James Butler aka Jimmy D…de master of multitasking. He has as many names as he does occupations, jimmy james, cousin james, and o.k. den. With a long history in politics, local and world wide, Jimmy D has razor sharp diplomatic skills and can charm pauper and prince alike. He is a walking encyclopedia of knowledge with expertise in antique import/export, actually a front for his position as a CIA (Clarksdale is Awesome) operative, a master chef, financial advisor and professional beer taster. He will soon be giving worldwide seminars on multitasking with a series of lectures that was to be titled "getting things done" now titled "I thought I did that yesterday".

Jim Field aka Jeem Bleu…as you may well ascertain from his name alone, Jeem is descended from French nobility yet his roots run deep in the delta soil. Jeem, by necessity, is a jet setting, globetrotting adventurer. With chalets in the south of France, mountain retreats in Colorado and ocean view acreage in California, yet Jeem is most at home on the porches of the beloved shacks. In between multinational travel with beautiful starlets from around the world, tending his vineyards and overseeing the production of his Chateau JEEM Chardonnay, Jeem returns to Hopson to unwind and live the "good life" much as Hugh Hefner does in Hollywood.

Tommy Polk aka Tommynation El Presidenta, is a magnate of the international entertainment industry. He divides his time between creating and marketing international music compositions. El Presidenta is a frequent guest speaker at the Harvard School of Entrepreneurship and is the winner of the No Bell Piece prize for his "Success Is A Six Pack Away" series. From writing best selling books to penning world wide chart topping hit songs, to standing room only lectures, tommynation is an extremely busy, and wealthy, business tycoon, but not too busy to return often to oversee the progress of the shacks. There he enjoys the quite tranquil atmosphere and the peaceful silence interrupted only by pop-tops opening and Robert Johnson records. He has recently started negotiations with bob villa to do a weekly series called This Old Shack, which will air on CAS, (Cadillac's, Airstreams and Shacks) Hopson's own cable channel.


How in the world did these nuts find each other?

Since birth, all of the shackmeisters have had two things in common, sick and sicker. The first is an overwhelming appreciation for the Delta Blues and secondly, an overpowering affection for the hospitality industry.

Each, with different spirit guides, and on separate vision quests, and all in search of Robert Johnson legends, the fortunate five wound up at midnight, on the same night, at the same crossroad. There the deal was made. As lightning flashed in the delta skies and thunder rolled across the moonlit cotton fields, the five shackmeisters, cypress prophets all, forged a bond stronger than old oak and new rope. Their mission, to bring the blues home to the cradle and rock the tourists in the process. Like hellhounds on their trail, the shacks have overtaken the Shackmeisters, to the benefit millions of blues lovers from around the world.

Lost Superstitions

CONJURE BALLS, MOJOS AND FRIZZLY CHICKENS
         
                        by Carl D. Kirby
         
         
         
  The beliefs and superstitions that I learned growing up in the Mississippi Delta have almost faded away. The tenants who nurtured them are dead or scattered to the four winds, displaced
by machinery and technology.
         
 An early casualty of their migration to the cities was the legend of the Swift Peter. Occasionally renewed in the plantation environment, there was nothing to sustain it in the inner city. This widely-held belief had a credible basis in fact. I had heard about this mysterious animal since childhood, and in the early fifties an incident occurred that prompted me to investigate the source of the legend. One of my, tractor drivers said that he was keeping his prize possum hound in the house at night because a tenant on the adjacent place had reported a Swift Peter attack. I had previously interviewed plenty of witnesses,
many of whom reported sightings of the animal. Descriptions were sketchy due to the blazing speed of the creature. The tenant reported I couldn't do nothin' but glimpse him 'fore he run into the cotton. There were many more ear witnesses than eye witnesses. The animal or animals attacked the house dogs and cats, killed or carried off chickens and small puppies. Dogs that fought them were often badly wounded. The attacks occurred at night and raised a tremendous racket. When the tenant ran out with his gun and lantern, he was always too late to get a shot. According to one victim, When he run off, it w'ant a minute till I heard a racket at the next house. My break-through came in the person of one Eddie Robinson, a
one armed man who was chopping cotton for me. I admired Eddie because he had overcome his disability by rigging a leather harness with a large brass ring to slip the hoe handle through. I asked him if he had ever heard of a Swift Peter. I sho' have. I even seen one. Where? Cross the river in Arkansas. We was possum  huntin' and the dogs bayed him. He was caught in somebody's trap. He like to killed one of the dogs before we shot him. How did you
know it was a Swift Peter? They all said it was. What did it look like? Well, it was bigger than yo' bird dog, but not hardly as big as Mr. Butler's German Police dog, and he was kinda long and low. He had two rows of teefies on the bottom and the top  teefies come down twix 'em.. .and kind of a yellow top knot. Eddie admitted that they were all drinking. I always found him to be truthful, so I believed he thought he saw the double row of teeth in the lower jaw. I believe that it was a Red Wolf,
still surviving at that time in parts of Louisiana and Arkansas. A highly secretive animal, it could well have thrived in the vast
forests between the levee on the Mississippi side.  
   Two other beliefs, although erroneous, were supported by visual evidence. Because a boar possum has a forked penis, they believed it copulated in the nostrils of the female, who then sneezed the semen into the marsupial pouch. There was the Stinging Snake, properly named Chain Snake for the red linked design on its black body. This snake is harmless, but its tail ends in a sharp point that looks like a stinger. There was the recurring tale of one stinging a tree in its death throes, whereupon the tree promptly died.       
  The strongest and most popular superstitions were of African origin. A gifted few had the power to cast spells or conjures to enlist the aid of good or evil spirits. They were referred to as witches, regardless of gender. I personally witnessed a successful conjure in the late thirties:
         
   Uncle Rambo was probably eighty, with a shock of white hair and a scraggly goatee. He was described as two headed; he had too much wisdom for one head, and he was feared and revered throughout his domain. One day he was fishing on the Yazoo Pass, and he ran out of pipe tobacco. He hailed a young man fishing
nearby. Aubrey, you got any 'bacca? I ain't got nothin' but some Grainger Twist. That'll be all
right, boy. Aubrey got to his feet and executed a dance that would become popular years later. The old man was speechless, not comprehending the play on words. Aubrey laughed, That ain't
enough, I'll gi' you some mo'. He resumed his gyrations. Uncle Rambo didn't laugh. He pointed a shaking finger at Aubrey. You gon' be sorry for that, boy. A week or so later, Aubrey awoke to find a bloody sheet tied over the foot of his bed. Now, a conjure is no good unless the
conjuree knows he or she is being conjured, and what the result will be. Uncle Rambo had put the word out that the sheet was a death sheet, and that Aubrey would lose the use of his legs.
    Not long after, my country doctor father got a call from the plantation owner to come see about Aubrey. I went along to drive
and observe. There was no doubt Aubrey was ill. He was listless and his skin was ashy. Papa checked him over. He had no feeling in his
legs and feet. He couldn't wiggle his toes or move his legs.Papa stuck him with a needle from his thighs to the soles of his feet. No reflexes. He elicited the story of the Grainger Twist from a tearful Aubrey. Don't worry, Aubrey, I'm going to find a cure for you.
         
    Back at headquarters, he told Mr. Turner, Tim, I can't do anything for Aubrey, but you can. Go to Uncle Rambo and give him twenty dollars to take the curse off. Don't laugh; I've read authentic stories of believing in spells so strongly that no doctor could cure them. There is nothing physically wrong with
 him, but don't discount the power of the mind. There are accounts of Polynesians who can simply will themselves to die when they are tired of living. As a doctor, I can't comprehend how one can stop an involuntary muscle like the heart, but they do it. By the way, this call is on me.
         
     Uncle Rambo allowed Aubrey's father to witness the removal. Although it was summer, he had Jim to kindle a hot fire in the fireplace. He threw in powders that blazed up in different
 colors. He mumbled incantations, rubbing Aubrey's legs with a salve that no doubt contained cayenne pepper. Aubrey began to
sweat profusely. Uncle Rambo dried him off with a clean flour sack and threw it in the fire. Aubrey's legs twitched. He flexed his toes and began to shout. Thank you, Uncle Rambo!
Thank you, Jesus! I'm sorry, Uncle Rambo, I was just jokin you.
         
   Uncle Rambo put his materials away. Don't never joke nobody like that again, boy. Don't open the window till the fire burn hitself out. Good evenin'. A week later, Aubrey was hoeing cotton. I was privileged to see another act of witchcraft used to apprehend a fugitive. A fight at a card game resulted in the stabbing death of one of the players, and the perpetrator escaped into the woods behind the levee. He was at home in the woods, and presumed to be armed. When the dogs lost the trail in the river, the sheriff called off the search and obtained the  services of a witch woman. He figured the killer's family were providing him with food and shelter, as well as reports on the movements of the searchers. At the funeral service, the witch placed an egg in each hand of the deceased and assured his family that three days after the burial, his hands would start squeezing the eggs, and the murderer would feel shortness of breath and heart pains. His heart would burst when the eggs did, unless he gave himself up beforehand. Of course, his kin duly informed him, and the tenth day after the funeral he came in, actually looking relieved.
         
 One of my hands asked off to attend his uncle's funeral. I asked him what was the cause of death. They say he had a snake in him. How in the world could he swallow a snake, Andrew? He didn't 'zackly swallow it. Well, how did it exactly get there? A witch-man put somthin' on him. How did he do it?
         
 They say he catch a snake of a certain kind and kill it in a certain way, and tie a certain knot in it. Then he hang it up in a tree till it dry, then he grind it into a powder, and put it in my uncle somethin' to eat. When he et it, the snake re-fawm inside him, then it quile around his heart and start squeezin' till he die. Didn't they try to do something to stop it?  Everthaing they could; they give him some lye. Hell, Andrew, they burned him up trying to kill the snake! It wan't all that much, but his lips real red.
  Many superstitions bordered on the ridiculous. One man who left his wife and came to live with relatives on my place gave the following explanation: My wife shade-dried my clothes. He had come home to find the clothing hanging under the front porch, and had left with just what he had on. I never did learn the
penalty for ignoring this one, but twenty years later encountered a similar superstition among the negritos of Esmeraldas, Ecuador.
         
  The afflicted were not completely defenseless. Some spells had their antidotes. Butterbean hulls placed under the front
porch steps prevented the entry of malicious spirits that brought illness. A bottle tree in the front yard was a good all around repellent. A small dead tree or bush with plenty of branches was festooned with all colors and shapes of small bottles, chiefly those used for medicines, flavoring and hair straightener. They were fine for ordinary spells cast from a distance, but availed not against conjure balls hidden near the house. Conjure balls were made from secret ingredients ground into a powder, mixed with beeswax and rolled into a marble-sized ball. It could be tossed under the porch or close to the house, where it would pass unnoticed while it slowly released its malignant vapors. The only known antidote for this was the frizzly chicken. These chickens are distinguished by feathers which curl forward, giving the appearance of standing with their butts to a strong breeze.Persons carelessly picking up a conjure ball would receive the full charge of the curse, possibly killing them outright. The frizzly, being immune, would track down the ball, pick it up and tote it into the woods, far from the proximity of the intended victim.
         
 There were charms intended to offset bad luck with good. I carried a rabbit's foot in grade school. Our cook, Henrietta,
got me a Three S Toby, a small bag packed with soot, sand and salt, and some little hard balls that felt like okra seed. I wore it on a string inside my shirt. The little chamois bag was
tightly sewn, and it was never to be opened. Its job was to keep haunts we called them haints from scaring me. It was very effective, and obviously had great residual effect. It has been sixty-nine years since I lost it swimming in Moon Lake, and to this day, I've never been scared by a haint.
         
         
         
         
         
                                     THE END