Walt's Look Around: Hanging Bridges - MSNewsNow.com - Jackson, MS

Walt's Look Around: Hanging Bridges

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Stuckey Bridge in Lauderdale County spans the Chunky River, and is supposed to me called Stuckey Bridge because a fellow by that name who had an inn nearby and was notorious for murdering his guests in the night. Stuckey Bridge in Lauderdale County spans the Chunky River, and is supposed to me called Stuckey Bridge because a fellow by that name who had an inn nearby and was notorious for murdering his guests in the night.
There are at least two different accounts of lynchings that happened here from a long time ago. There are at least two different accounts of lynchings that happened here from a long time ago.
LAUDERDALE COUNTY, MS (Mississippi News Now) -

To borrow a phrase from the gun lobby, bridges don't hang people, PEOPLE hang people. But there are at least two old steel frame, wood plank bridges, both built high over the streams they ford in East Mississippi, and both are called ‘the hanging bridge,' and its not for their construction  

Now, the veracity of any actual hangings that may have or may not have taken place here is going to be left up to the researcher and his ability to pull any hard grains of fact from the fire-ant mound of myth and lore that has grown up around them.  

Now for instance, Stuckey Bridge in Lauderdale County spans the Chunky River, and is supposed to me called Stuckey Bridge because a fellow by that name who had an inn nearby and was notorious for murdering his guests in the night and after robbing them was hung from this bridge, or so says the lore.

I see a couple of problems with that story. One, why would you name a bridge for a fellow who was executed on it? And more importantly, murdering the guests at your inn would really be bad on repeat business.  

Now farther south, after the Chunky merges with Okatibbiee Creek to form the Chicasawhay River, near the town of Shubuta is another hanging bridge. A darker history shrouds this place.

There are at least two different accounts of lynchings that happened here from a long time ago. The bridge is a frail shadow of itself today, as is the spirit of the time from when it was used for such a cowardly purpose.

But on a hot summer day when it is still and quiet after a rain, and the river is a mirror once more after the torrent of a few minutes ago, the skeleton of the hanging bridge emerges from the canopy of trees on either bank of the river, where tangled trunks and branches render access to the old structure useless nowadays, and the spirits of the place whisper to standers-by, telling them pretty much what they want to hear about what happened here and shout for either vengeance or forgiveness, echoing the heart of the listener. But reminding the one undeniable truth in all of it.

These bridges didn't do any of it by themselves.

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