![]() Perhaps no town in America revels more in the messiness of life - especially the lives of its favorite sons - than Ferriday, five miles from the Mississippi River in northeast Louisiana. “That,” says his baby sister, her chest swelling with pride, “is where Jerry Lee Lewis of Ferriday, Louisiana, learned to do his business.” Simpson, the Killer’s rifles, his baby shoes, and, preserved for posterior uh, posterity: the Killer’s potty-training toilet. ![]() The birthing quilt of the first cousin Jimmy Swaggart lies on the very bed where, Frankie claims, the televangelist was “conceived in sin.” And then there is the kitsch of big brother Killer: the golf clubs from O.J. Pictures of first cousin Mickey Gilley sit atop a table. Frankie Lewis Terrell puts down her bottle of whiskey, closes the window to her drive-through liquor store and walks next door to begin the tour of 712 Eighth Ave., the family home that became a museum. Baltimore Sun eNewspaper Home Page Close MenuįERRIDAY, La.
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