Comfrey

Rais’n Up Catfish: Nine

Comfrey, Mississippi, 1972

From the highway to the east, Comfrey had failed to make much of an impression that first morning, but then I was only barely paying attention. Mom was nervous about dropping me at the fish farm’s hatchery and making a clean getaway, so while we were driving past, she was talking loud and fast, rehearsing what she’d say if things went sideways and taking long, anxious draws from her menthol, Virginia Slim. I was a little distracted.

Despite the hand-painted magnolia blossom on the town’s faded, green, ‘Welcome’ sign, scarcely visible between the farm implement dealership and an aging Texaco, Comfrey looked pretty much like any of the other small, Delta communities we’d passed along the way, a convenient swelling of trees, shacks and houses that had, for reasons less than obvious, grown up amidst miles of grid-like, county roads and flood-carved farms.

Flats Fixed While You Wait

Of course, Comfrey wasn’t just like all those other towns, not to those born and raised there, and so, once my rooming arrangements had been settled with the sisters, Vernon decided he should drive me through the heart of town, pointing out things he considered important.