Traveling the East: Mississippi's Quiet Side
- Jason Lykins
- Jun 3
- 14 min read
The Ghost of a Lake and the Promise of Tomorrow
The gravel crunched under my Jeep’s tires as I rolled into the campground, the sound sharp against the quiet of dusk. I’d come for a sunset view, picturing the sky bleeding orange and pink over a shimmering lake, with a sunrise to match come morning. But as I scanned the horizon for the perfect spot, my heart sank. Where was the water? The lakebed stretched out before me, a cracked, barren expanse of dust and despair, like the bones of some ancient beast left to bleach under the Southern sun. This wasn’t the serene escape I’d imagined—it was a ghost town of a lake, drained and forgotten.
Disappointment stung, but I wasn’t about to let it ruin the night. I turned away from the empty edge and ventured into the woods, where the trees stood like silent sentinels, guarding secrets of their own. The air grew cooler, thick with the scent of pine and earth. I gathered firewood, each snap of a branch echoing in the stillness, and coaxed a fire to life. Its warm glow pushed back the darkness as I unloaded the Jeep, prepped a simple meal, and settled into my camp chair with a drink in hand. The crackle of the flames was my only company as I sipped and sketched out plans for the next day’s adventure. Tomorrow, I told myself, would be grand.
Sleep came easy under the stars, but morning brought clarity and curiosity. As I packed up the Jeep, I couldn’t shake the question: what happened to the lake? A chance encounter with a local near the campground gave me the answer. “Dam broke a while back,” he said, squinting at the horizon. “Drained the whole thing overnight. They’re planning to build a new one, but who knows when.” His words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of something lost. The lake wasn’t just dry—it was a casualty of time and neglect, another Southern relic left to fade.
But the road was calling, and I wasn’t done exploring. Porterville was next on the abandoned radar. As I drove away, the dry lake lingered in my mind, a reminder that even the emptiest places have stories to tell. I slung my camera over my shoulder, ready to capture whatever came next. The South is full of ghosts, and I’m here to chase them all.
Dawn on the Sucarnoochee: Uncovering Porterville’s Past
The sun was barely peeking over the horizon as I rolled out of the dry lake campground, the Jeep’s tires still dusted with the cracked earth of that vanished water. Disappointment from the bone-dry lake lingered, but the road to Porterville, promised new stories. Dawn’s light filtered through the pines as I pulled up to the Porterville General Store, a weathered wooden giant perched along the Sucarnoochee River. Its sagging timbers groaned with history, once housing a bustling store, a car shop, and a doctor's office. The river’s quiet murmur nearby felt like a whisper from the past, carrying tales of Choctaw lands and frontier dreams.
A local greeted me as I stepped out, his voice warm with pride for his town. “You here to shoot the store?” he asked, eyeing my camera. He spun tales of Porterville’s heyday, when the General Store was the heart of a community of 200 souls in 1906, a hub for trade along the Kansas City Southern Railway. He tipped me off about hidden relics on the town’s edge, his words painting pictures of a forgotten town. As I snapped photos of the store’s splintered facade, its warped boards glowing in the morning light, he walked beside me, curious about my mission to document the region’s lost places. “The Porters’ kin still live across the street,” he said, nodding toward a modest house, a living link to the town’s namesake, Willie N. Porter.
He gave me directions to two relics: a stone school tucked in a clearing among the trees and a lone house by the railroad tracks. The school, its stone walls cool in the early light, sat in an open field, surrounded by whispering pines. Inside, a room held scattered chairs, frozen as if waiting for a class long gone. The house, on the far side of town, stood guarding the tracks, its peeling paint and sagging porch a silent witness to trains that no longer stop. Each shutter click felt like capturing a piece of Porterville’s soul, a town cradled by the Sucarnoochee’s slow flow.
With the morning still young, I set my sights on Boral Bricks, the next stop on this journey through Kemper County’s ghosts. The General Store’s weathered boards and the river’s quiet song stayed with me as I drove on, my camera heavy with stories of a South that time forgot.
Revisiting Boral Bricks: Macon’s Untouched Relic
The morning air was still crisp as I rolled out of Porterville, the dawn light beginning to stretch into noon. I’ve always had a knack for remembering the layout of places I’ve explored—each turn, each weathered sign, each forgotten corner etched in my mind like a map. Today, I found myself drawn back to Boral Bricks in Macon, Mississippi. I’d been here before, but the shots from that first visit didn’t do the place justice. So here I was, camera in hand, retracing my steps to capture the essence of this quiet, enduring site.
Everything was just as I’d left it—no damage, no graffiti, just a place preserved with a kind of unspoken reverence for history. These are the spots I love most, where the past is respected, where time seems to pause for the town’s folk and explorers like me. Boral Bricks, or more specifically the Delta Boral Brick Company, sits along Highway 14 West in Macon, a testament to the region’s industrial heritage.
The history of Boral Bricks in Macon stretches back decades, rooted in the area’s rich clay deposits that fueled Mississippi’s brick-making industry. The Macon plant, part of Boral’s Delta Division, has long been a key player in producing clay bricks, leveraging the sedimentary clay from nearby Kemper, Noxubee, and Winston Counties. By the late 20th century, Boral had become a significant name in the Southeast, known for manufacturing both common and face bricks, with operations marked by innovation and scale. The Macon facility, under the management of Pete Papas in its later years, was a hub of activity, though it also faced scrutiny as a superfund site due to potential environmental concerns from its clay mining and production processes.
What strikes me most about this place is its quiet resilience. The kilns may no longer hum, but the site stands as a monument to the craftsmanship and labor that built so many of Mississippi’s homes and landmarks. As I framed my shots, the morning light caught the texture of the brick structures, each one a story of endurance. This is why I return to places like Boral Bricks—not just for the perfect photo, but to honor the history they hold, preserved by a community that values its past as much as I do.
Chasing Shadows of the Past: Porterville to Brooksville
The road from Macon to Brooksville, Mississippi, felt like a step back in time. The early afternoon light casting shadows over the rolling prairie, and I could already sense the history woven into this quiet town. Brooksville, nestled in Noxubee County about nine miles north of Macon, carries the weight of its past with a kind of understated grace. Founded in the 1830s, it blossomed in the 1850s with the arrival of the Mobile and Ohio Railroad, which turned it into a hub for cotton plantations and commerce. The town’s name comes from the brooks that flow nearby, a nod to the land’s natural beauty. By 1860, Brooksville was incorporated, and despite the Civil War’s devastation, it endured, serving as a stop for wounded soldiers and a haven for early settlers from the Carolinas, Georgia, and Alabama. Today, with a population of just 915 as of 2020, it remains a small, tight-knit community, home to a Holdemann Mennonite community and a Peco Foods poultry plant since 1993.
As I pulled into Brooksville, one building immediately caught my eye, right beside the police station. It looked like an old hotel, its weathered facade whispering stories of better days. The ground floor was hollowed out, empty and silent, as if it had been waiting for travelers who never came. Upstairs, I glimpsed what seemed to be an abandoned apartment—someone had tried to modernize it, with hints of fresh paint and newer fixtures, but the effort had clearly been abandoned. The place felt frozen, caught between ambition and surrender. In the background, a water tower loomed, its silhouette completing the scene’s old-timey charm. It was as if the whole town had agreed to let history stand untouched, respected in its stillness.
These are the places I seek out—where the past lingers, unspoiled by neglect or vandalism. Brooksville, with its quiet streets and enduring relics, felt like a love letter to Mississippi’s yesteryears. I set up my camera, framing the old hotel and water tower against the afternoon sky, hoping to capture that fleeting sense of time standing still.
Echoes of Speed: The Abandoned Go-Kart Park
The road to Athens, Mississippi, stretched out before me, a quiet ribbon of asphalt under the afternoon sun. I was deep in thought, savoring the solitude of the drive, when something pulled my gaze to the side—an old, abandoned go-kart track, its faded glory tucked off the highway like a forgotten memory. Once a lively hub of laughter and competition, it now stood silent, reclaimed by time.
I pulled over, drawn to the remnants of what must have been a family-friendly haven. The go-kart track itself had vanished, the asphalt loop likely cracked and overgrown, swallowed by the earth. But the starting awning still stood, weathered yet defiant, its metal frame a ghostly marker of races long finished. No go-karts remained, their engines silent, leaving only the echo of screeching tires in my imagination. Nearby, I spotted traces of what had been—a few crumbling foundations where batting cages once stood, and a winding sidewalk path that hinted at a goofy mini-golf course, now gone without a trace. The concrete path, curling through the grass, was all that remained of putt-putt dreams, its curves leading nowhere but into the past.
This unexpected stop was exactly the kind of place I love—a snapshot of joy left untouched, not by vandalism but by time’s gentle hand. I framed a few shots, capturing the awning against the open sky, the empty path stretching into the distance. It felt like a cool little pause in my journey, a reminder that even the smallest places hold stories worth telling. With Athens still ahead, I climbed back into the Jeep, carrying the quiet charm of this forgotten track with me.
Whispers of Confinement: The Athens Jail
The road to Athens, Mississippi, wound through the quiet heart of Monroe County, where every mile seemed to whisper stories of a bygone era. Pulling into Athens, an unincorporated community that once aspired to be Monroe County’s proud seat, I was immediately drawn to the old Athens Jail. At first glance, it looked more like a quaint schoolhouse than a place of confinement, its simple brick & wooden facade weathered but standing firm against time. A bold "Keep Out" sign was plastered across the front, and though the door hung slightly ajar, tempting a peek inside, I honored the warning and stayed outside, circling the building to capture its quiet story through my lens.
The Athens Jail, also known as the Old Monroe County Jail, holds the distinction of being the oldest surviving public building in Monroe County, constructed in 1845 by Joshua Toomer for $503.31. Built during Athens’ brief second tenure as county seat from 1842 to 1850, it served a bustling town of 500 residents, complete with six stores, three hotels, two churches, two taverns, and a school. This modest jail likely held minor offenders—perhaps local troublemakers caught in petty disputes or travelers passing through on the old stagecoach line. Serious criminals were often sent to larger facilities or faced harsher fates, like convict leasing, common in Mississippi after the Civil War. When the county seat shifted to Aberdeen in 1857, following a courthouse fire in 1849, the jail’s purpose faded, and Athens itself began to wane, its post office closing by 1873.
As I framed my shots from every angle, I found myself wondering about the prisoners who once occupied this small space. Who were they? How long were they held? The jail’s compact size suggested short stays, likely a few days or weeks for most, though specific records of inmates are hard to come by. There was something captivating about its schoolhouse-like charm, a contrast to the weight of its purpose. Untouched by vandalism, preserved by a community that respects its history, the jail stood as a silent monument to Athens’ faded dreams. With my camera full of images and my mind full of questions, I left Athens, carrying the quiet weight of its past with me.
Dusk on the Lake: A Rainy Respite
The Mississippi countryside unfolded around me as I roamed a little longer, the day slipping away under a sky heavy with clouds. After leaving the quiet relics of Athens behind, I stopped at a small grocery for supplies—some canned soup, a few snacks to tide me over. As I browsed the aisles, the bottom fell out, rain hammering the roof with a vengeance. I knew then it was going to be a wet camping experience.
I rolled up to my campsite right on the lake, this one had water in it. This spot had an electrical hookup, a small luxury amidst the downpour. By the time I set up, the rain had mercifully subsided, leaving the ground soggy but the air fresh and cool. I cooked my soup over a small stove, the simple meal warming me as I sat and watched the sun sink into the lake. The red ball dipped below the horizon, painting the now partially cloudy sky with streaks of fire. It was too wet, and I was too tired, to bother with a campfire. Instead, I crawled into my Jeep, the familiar cocoon of my mobile haven, and drifted off early, lulled by the quiet lapping of the lake.
Tomorrow, my journey would continue with an abandoned hotel first on the list—a new chapter in my chase for the stories etched in forgotten places. For now, though, the lake and the stillness were enough.
Echoes in the Empty: The Forgotten Hotel
The morning light was still soft as I rolled into the heart of downtown, where an old hotel stood like a silent giant of a bygone era. Its weathered facade loomed over the quiet street, a forgotten gem in a town that time seemed to have overlooked. The front door hung open, an invitation I couldn’t resist. Stepping into the lobby, I was greeted by an unexpected sight: a Christmas tree, its tinsel dulled by dust, still standing as if waiting for a holiday long past. My camera’s shutter clicked, the sound echoing in the cavernous space, each snap a tribute to this relic frozen in time.
Then I saw him—a man curled on his side in a corner, sleeping soundly, oblivious to my presence. My heart skipped a beat, but he hadn’t heard me. I tiptoed toward the first-floor hallway, drawn to explore the rooms, only to freeze when voices drifted from behind a closed door. Dang it! Someone else was here. Not wanting to disturb the unexpected residents, I retreated, moving like a shadow to the second floor. The stairs creaked under my careful steps, but the upper levels were a different story—empty, abandoned, their silence heavy with the weight of forgotten guests. The third floor was much the same, rooms stripped bare, windows clouded with grime, yet the bones of the hotel whispered of grander days.
Like a ninja, I slipped back outside, my heart still racing from the thrill of discovery. I circled the building, snapping shots of its faded elegance, a historical hotel left to the mercy of time but not entirely forgotten. Apparently, a couple of locals had claimed it as their own, carving out a quiet existence amid its decay. I couldn’t help but wonder about the stories this place held—of travelers who once filled its rooms, of celebrations under that Christmas tree, of a town that once bustled around it. For now, I had my photos and the echo of those voices, a reminder that even abandoned places still have life within them.
Lessons in the Woods: The Old Thompson School
The road to Ethel, Mississippi, carried me deeper into Attala County, where the landscape felt like a canvas of history painted with pine and oak. My destination was the Old Thompson School, a one-room schoolhouse founded in 1880, tucked quietly in the woods. As I approached, its weathered wooden exterior stood resilient against the years, the aged boards glowing warmly in the morning light. This simple structure, a testament to rural education, seemed to hum with the echoes of lessons long past.
Built in 1880, the Old Thompson School was a classic one-room schoolhouse, a staple of Mississippi’s rural communities in the late 19th century. These schools served children from ages five to eighteen, often teaching grades one through eight in a single room with one teacher managing multiple levels. In Attala County, like much of the rural South, students were typically the children of local farmers, merchants, or laborers, learning the “Three R’s”—reading, writing, and arithmetic—alongside geography, spelling, and moral lessons. Textbooks like the McGuffey Reader or Webster’s Blue-Backed Speller were common, often passed down among siblings. Boys might attend only in winter, helping with farm work in spring and fall, while girls balanced school with domestic chores. The teacher, often a young woman earning $14–$28 a month in the 1880s, would have been a local or someone trained at a nearby normal school, such as the Houston Normal College in nearby Chickasaw County, founded in 1888.
I wondered about those students—who were they, and where are they now? Their names are lost to time, as records from small rural schools like Thompson are rare, often kept only in faded ledgers or family stories. Some likely stayed in Ethel, raising families and working the land, while others may have moved to nearby towns like Kosciusko or even further, chasing opportunities as Mississippi modernized. By the early 20th century, one-room schoolhouses like Thompson began to close as consolidation sent students to larger schools, leaving these buildings to fade into memory or, in some cases, become museums or private homes. Today, the descendants of those students might still live in Attala County, or they could be scattered across the country, their connection to this schoolhouse a distant thread in their family history.
As I framed my shots, capturing the sturdy wood and the way the forest seemed to cradle the school, a car pulled into the clearing. A concerned local eyed me, her curiosity tinged with caution. I offered a friendly wave, holding up my camera to signal my intent. That simple gesture eased her worry, and with a nod, she pulled away, satisfied I wasn’t there with nefarious purpose. Alone again, I continued my work, the schoolhouse standing as a quiet monument to a community that valued education enough to build this place in the wilderness. With my photos taken, I left Ethel, carrying the image of those resilient boards and the unanswered stories of the children who once learned within them.
Treasures in Time: J&H Harper Grocery
The road to Hot Coffee, Mississippi, felt like a journey to the edge of a storybook, where the name alone—rooted in a legend of a traveler’s haven with a pot of New Orleans blend always brewing—promised something special. Nestled along Highway 532 in Covington County, near Mt. Olive and Collins, my final stop was J&H Harper Grocery, a relic of rural life that has stood since around 1900. Listed on the National Register of Historic Places, this old store once thrived under the care of Judy and Herbert Harper, who locals jokingly called the mayor of Hot Coffee. It was a hub for groceries, antiques, and curios, where travelers and neighbors gathered, drawn by the warmth of community and the promise of a hot cup of coffee.
Peering through the dusty windows, I expected to see shelves of canned goods or faded signs of a bygone market. Instead, the interior told a different story—books, computer monitors, and large oil cans cluttered the space, a curious mix that belied the store’s namesake. It seemed someone had tried to breathe new life into this old establishment, perhaps turning it into a quirky archive or workspace, but the effort appeared abandoned, left to gather dust like the memories it held. The Harpers retired years ago, closing the store and leaving it to time’s quiet embrace, though traces of their legacy lingered in the memorabilia just visible through the glass.
I took my shots, capturing the weathered facade and the faint reflections of a place caught between its past and an uncertain future. The scene felt like a fitting end to my journey through Mississippi’s forgotten corners—each stop a testament to history’s resilience, even when repurposed dreams fall short. With the Jeep pointed south toward my coastal home, I was eager to sort through the photos, each one a piece of the story I’d weave into my next book. J&H Harper Grocery, like the schoolhouse, jail, and hotel before it, reminded me why I chase these places: they hold the soul of a time and people who shaped them, still standing for those willing to look.
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