An evening spent around the fire with neighbours from Quebec City while I tried my broken French and they their broken English persuaded me to spend a second day at Rocky Springs. Accordingly I got my bike down after running the generator to heat my coffee, toast my bread, and recharge my batteries. Set out to explore the neighbourhood. Not much distinguishes the picnic area nearby, even the washroom is still closed for ‘winter’.
Up the hill adjoining Port Gibson Rd is the former village of Rocky Springs. Once a thriving community with 2000 slaves, artisans, a store, and cotton gin all that remains to show for the 2616 former residents are two rusting safes, a few cisterns, and the Methodist Church. It was heartening to read on the sign outside that it was still in weekly use for devine worship until I walked inside and learned that the final service last June 2010 was a desecration service. A tall brick building with large windows crumbling brick outline its eaves outside but the inside is well-kept, the former oil lamps electrified, an air conditioning unit sits outside and inside radiant propane heaters. The bell rope has been retracted, the organ is covered and only a guest register and donation envelopes for the Friends of Church who were formerly members remain. Just beyond the church is the cemetery which gives evidence that time treats both the grandest and rudest gravestones with equal impudence. A modern stone marks a death that occurred in 1903; most others are hard to read. I did catch the names Lum and Bobo.
So what killed the once thriving village. First the Civil War; then Yellow Fever brought back by the boys who returned?; the boll weevil; and finally bad land management. The fine loess soil that was blown here in post glacial times suffered severe erosion when cotton plantations occupied widespread areas; the parks service is still attempting to curb that process.
The remainder of my day was spent reading the materials I picked up at the park office and the guide book to the trace. Mid-afternoon I broke to grill jerk chicken. Looked for the rub in the store but ended up mixing my own.
Up the hill adjoining Port Gibson Rd is the former village of Rocky Springs. Once a thriving community with 2000 slaves, artisans, a store, and cotton gin all that remains to show for the 2616 former residents are two rusting safes, a few cisterns, and the Methodist Church. It was heartening to read on the sign outside that it was still in weekly use for devine worship until I walked inside and learned that the final service last June 2010 was a desecration service. A tall brick building with large windows crumbling brick outline its eaves outside but the inside is well-kept, the former oil lamps electrified, an air conditioning unit sits outside and inside radiant propane heaters. The bell rope has been retracted, the organ is covered and only a guest register and donation envelopes for the Friends of Church who were formerly members remain. Just beyond the church is the cemetery which gives evidence that time treats both the grandest and rudest gravestones with equal impudence. A modern stone marks a death that occurred in 1903; most others are hard to read. I did catch the names Lum and Bobo.
So what killed the once thriving village. First the Civil War; then Yellow Fever brought back by the boys who returned?; the boll weevil; and finally bad land management. The fine loess soil that was blown here in post glacial times suffered severe erosion when cotton plantations occupied widespread areas; the parks service is still attempting to curb that process.
The remainder of my day was spent reading the materials I picked up at the park office and the guide book to the trace. Mid-afternoon I broke to grill jerk chicken. Looked for the rub in the store but ended up mixing my own.
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