Whither Ridgely?

Ridgely

To and from Reelfoot Lake, we passed through Ridgely. At a glance, this remote outpost would seem unremarkable. Like every remote outpost, it has a story.

During the 1960s, Nancy’s mother went to school with a girl whose family relocated from Ridgely to Chicago. That might have been around the time industry began to dry up in rural America. Ridgely sits across the river from Interstate 55 but requires the Tiptonville ferry or a 30-minute drive south to reach it.

An online search yields little information about Ridgely beyond census and demographic information. Not all of it speaks well of the town; more than 25 percent of its residents live below the poverty line. A penitentiary lies just up the road and could employ those who don’t farm or work for the city.

At its best, it reminded me of Cowley and Lovell, the towns in north-central Wyoming built on sugar beets and natural resources. Beyond their borders were sugar beet fields or mining interests. But western towns are different, a little more impervious to the industrial decline thanks to their lush scenery and the glut of ghost towns sitting in their midst.

From Ridgely’s west end, distant stands of trees beyond the farm field hid the Mississippi’s nearby bend. To east lies flatland, miles of flatness months from sprouting in green.

People still grow up in America’s small towns. But in most cases, they go to college and don’t return. I have several friends who grew up on farms. None of them returned. Others left to pursue other careers, and their parents have other people tend their farms.

Ridgely still possessed a few stately blocks with giant, welcoming porches and some with an antebellum flair. 

Downtown had a few surviving businesses, but plenty were dark. There was some hum of activity, with people milling around the loose town center formed by the municipal buildings and the downtown block.

A cluster of newer apartment complexes sat just off the state highway, but other development wore a layer of age. Past downtown, an inordinate number of homes had ramps, hinting that the remaining population was overwhelmingly elderly.

A tattered gas station hoisted a marquee sign with regular grade below $1 a gallon. A closed café – whether permanently or for the evening, we could not tell – touted its unforgettable earthquake burger. As we looped back to the state route, I found myself wanting that burger, if only because it might give Ridgely a chance  for notoriety.

I come not to bury the American small town. Too many people take potshots at small towns. It’s why I had to drop a Bill Bryson book because of his dismissive town about small-town America (and the steaming heaps of cornball humor on every page). People didn’t flee and let these towns fall on hard times purposely.

On Tennessee’s western plain, Ridgely endures. We can only hope for the return of the earthquake burger.