If someone asked you where Fort Adams is, you might as well say, “The end of the world.” That’s what it feels like – even though it’s actually at the end of Highway 24 West.
Once it leaves Woodville, the road winds through many a mile of big, gloomy, wild-looking hardwood forest. Then it hits the flat Mississippi River floodplain, and woods open up to vast farm fields.
A stop sign encircled by blinking lights signals the end of Highway 24. The road turns to gravel as it continues into what’s left of Fort Adams, mostly a smattering of old buildings.
I came this way last Sunday with my bluegrass-gospel group, the Gullyjumpers, to play at Fort Adams Baptist Church, which occupies a bit of high ground on the east side of town. We were carrying on a very old tradition – in 1682 the French explorer Robert de La Salle stopped here to hold Easter Mass, and no doubt some form of hymns were sung.
Back then the Mississippi River flowed by the foot of the nearby bluff, which became the site of the actual Fort Adams. Since then the river has swung well to the west and the fort is long gone.
The Gullyjumpers played some old-timey music – though not as old as 1682! Then a quick tour through “town,” following Main Street past the boarded-up 1900 Catholic church and a couple of shacks where Bill Martin’s store once stood. In its prime, back in the 1980s, outdoorsmen stopped here for supplies, while fur-buyers bought pelts and other merchants bought pecans.
All gone.
Fort Adams is prone to flooding from the Mississippi River -- I’ve paddled a canoe down Main Street. Record floods in recent years are a big part of the town’s demise.
Beyond town the street splits into two gated roads. One goes straight, then loops south along the Mississippi River to the back end of Clark Creek. The other turns north and crosses Buffalo River en route to Jackson Point and the back side of Lake Mary.
Pumpkins survive drought
This year’s unusually hot, dry summer has been hard on gardens, but I had great success with one crop: pumpkins.
Most people plant pumpkins in July so they’ll ripen around Halloween. I’m glad I didn’t do that as the seeds probably wouldn’t have sprouted in the sun-baked dirt.
Instead I planted in the spring, in an old burn-pile where in the past I raided gourds with great success. I wasn’t expecting anywhere near as many pumpkins, but the seeds did sprout and spread out among the weeds.
Without benefit of fertilizer, watering or anything else, the vines flourished. Yellow blossoms turned into orange pumpkins about the size of footballs – too small for jack-o-lanterns but just right for cooking.
Squash, which includes pumpkins, was one of the so-called “three sisters” that Native Americans relied on for food, the others being beans and corn.
Everybody eats beans and corn nowadays, but we tend to prefer our pumpkin in pie, and then only when the filling comes from a can.
I sliced one of my pumpkins in half, removed the seeds and chopped the meat into chunks. I tried roasting some with other vegetables and wasn’t too impressed.
Next I steamed, peeled and mashed chunks for pumpkin bread. I used a recipe in the cookbook “From Rose Budd’s Kitchen” by the late Amite County native Rose Budd Stevens, real name Mamie Davis Willoughby.
It was incredibly good, whether for breakfast or dessert. But that kind of baking is a lot of work, especially if you’re not used to it. And pumpkin bread is a bit too rich to eat on a regular basis.
I still had a dozen pumpkins. In theory I could have cooked them up or baked a lot more bread, as both supposedly freeze well.
Instead, I took the rest of my pumpkins to church and told people to get as many as they wanted. To my surprise, by the time church was over and everybody left, not a one was left.
Like gospel music, I suppose some things are timeless.
