That demon claimed Mr. Lu. Not long after he was last seen, duck hunters found his body floating in the slough, with several quarts of Falstaff in the deep pockets of his coat. He died alone, but not forgotten by those of us who knew him. He was a ch
The Mississippi Delta is renowned not only for its fecund soil, but also for its unique characters, ranging from those with benign idiosyncrasies to raving lunatics roaming unrestrained among sane folks. One of the most unforgettable of them was Lloyd Lemuel Llewellynn, known by all as “Mr. Lu.” His varicose-veined face framed a bulbous nose, crooked smile, and intelligent blue eyes, fixed always in a faraway stare.
Even in the Delta’s perpetual, soup-thick humidity, where gills would serve better than lungs for respiration, he wore heavy, Victorian Era clothes, so old and shabby that actual Victorians might have worn them. He spoke with what he claimed was his native Welsh accent, but to us Southerners sounded more like a Yankee’s Welsh affectation.