The Old Country Club
When I was a sophomore in college, I was deeply enamored with a girl named Elizabeth, whom I spent as much time with as I could. She was one of the most beautiful women I've been associated with—so beautiful that in the year we spent time together, she drank me into academic probation and herself into another college. God, she was a lot of fun.
The formal dance for the Kappa Alpha Order in those days was called "Black and White," with the idea that the boys wore black tuxedos and the girls wore white dresses. We switched it up. I wore a white dinner jacket, and she wore a slinky black sequined dress, which made me very distracted.
In those days, there were only so many places that would rent a hall to fraternities from Millsaps. I suppose we had a reputation.
Sometime before first grade, the Country Club of Jackson moved from West Jackson, where it had been for years, to the northeast corner of Hinds County, where it intersected with Madison and Rankin Counties. The original idea was that part of their property would back into the proposed Pearl River Reservoir and they could merge the Jackson Yacht Club with the Country Club of Jackson. Something happened, and the proposed spillway was moved north, but the beautiful marina they had planned never happened. It wasn't the only bit of shenanigans involved in the building of the reservoir. It ended up being named for Ross Barnett, even though nobody in Jackson liked him,
The old Country Club of Jackson was sold to a group that reopened it as the Shady Oaks Country Club. Since they lost their primary customer base, they were willing to rent it to us against their better judgment.
During the party, I asked my lovely assistant a question: "What in this room shouldn't be here?" It was a big, attractive room with doors to the ballroom, a kitchen exit, and big picture windows looking out over the golf course. After some effort, she said she didn't know, so I offered a clue. "What was illegal in Jackson prior to the seventies?" I asked. She thought again. I could tell there was a pretty good chance she would beat me at this game.
"Other than a new coat of paint, I doubt if they've changed this room since it was built. It was a very popular place among good, God-fearing Baptists in Jackson," I said. Sitting on the stool, I could tell she was putting some effort into beating me at this game. After a few moments, the look on her face told me she'd figured it out.
"The Bar!" she shouted, loud enough for somebody else's date to look at us like we were heathens, which we probably were.
She was absolutely right. In a dry state, in a dry county, in a dry city, the Country Club of Jackson had a pretty nice bar. Not only did it have a bar, but there was a spot in the back of the room where my grandfather showed me where they had two slot machines.
That wasn't the only hidden treasure in the old country club. I took her to another room, a smaller multi-purpose room that I told her had been reserved for children and teenagers to use for dances and parties. I pointed out that it used to have a sign, but it had long since been taken down. Before that, the sign read "Golliwog Room," and she made a face like she knew that was scandalous.
Golliwogs were dolls and cartoons of little slave children, where all you can see is their eyes and their smiles. In the middle of the very segregated Jackson Country Club, somebody thought it'd be funny to name the teen wing for a minstrel show child.
The last I heard, a church of some kind owned the old Jackson Country Club. I don't know if they're even aware of all this left-handed history involved in the building. I kind of hope not. Some of those stories should be left to die off.