When you set out on a cool Sunday evening to take a drive around rural Mississippi, your chances of passing quietly through one little forgotten town or another are about as high as the likelihood that you’ll find it necessary to politely wave to half of those you pass along the way.
You may stop in at the little, country store sure to be located there or take a look at a few of the old buildings, long since shuttered and unused.
It seems that the tiny towns scattered across our state have become not only an almost unnoticed part of daily life, but a somewhat dreary reminder of the power of chance, where one town among many is chosen for growth. The former, once dreaming lofty dreams, remains a simple stop on a Sunday drive, soon forgotten.
But, there is something powerful that is passed by, unnoticed. Something unique and ever-present in the tiniest of towns, as they slowly creak along, year after year, seemingly forgotten by the random passerby.
Because it is here, where growth is slow and much remains as it has always been, where the stories are kept, lovingly stored away in the minds and hearts of the descendants of those who used to dream those lofty dreams.
It is here, among the swirling storm of stories, memories and hometown pride, old families and passerby – where we begin our story, fueled by the whispers and tales of a tiny town, ignored for far too long.