Keeping mind I’ve traveled all over the country, I can honestly say Jackson, MS is the single hottest city I’ve ever visited.  I liken it to visiting the sun.  The meteorologists use words like “oppressive heat”, “stifling humidity” and my personal fave … “All y’all are gonna burst in to flame and disintegrate if y’all go out of doors, y’all.”

Jackson sits atop a volcano, a rare distinction for a capital city.  No wonder it’s hot here … there’s lava flowing beneath the earth.

Other than the hellish climate (listed as “humid sub tropical” on Wikipedia), Jackson is a polite town where sweet tea flows out of the faucets instead of water.  It’s no wonder Mississippi is the 2^nd fattest state in the United States.  Gravy is considered a condiment.   I purposefully brought fat pants along on this shoot.  They no longer fit.  I’ve had to stop by the local Wal-Mart and buy new jeans.  Wal-Mart is a wise retailer.  They sell nothing but pants with elastic waistbands.  I would have never been able to write this blog yesterday.  I spent much of the day gasping for air in my far-too-tight-bordering-on-wardrobe-malfunction-jeans.

Some quick facts that I found shocking/amazing.  Nearly 25% of the city lives under the poverty line.  Ouch.  That would explain why Jackson’s murder rate ranks 4^th in the nation and for burglaries ranks #2.   Racial relations seem to have quelled in the last couple decades, but in the ‘60’s Jackson was a hotbed of civil rights turmoil.  It remains the only city in America to be placed under martial law for a year, courtesy of Congress and JFK, Jr.

The city of Jackson was named after President Andrew Jackson (then a general at the time.)  If President Jackson were in charge today, I’ll guarantee he would have run roughshod over BP and their disastrous handling of the gulf oil spill.  Even though Jackson is two hours away from the coast, all the local TV stations have updates on the oil disaster, now sitting at Day #85.

Not once have I ever used the excuse, “I’m from the North.”  But people down here act like common (and fashion) sense are dictated by their Mason-Dixon heritage.  If I’ve heard it once, I’ve heard it a thousand times this week, “Well, it IS the South, you know.”

I know … now shut up and pass me the defibrillator … I’m having chest pains from eating an entire homemade pecan pie.