Looking back over the past football season, one event stands out above all others.

No, not Auburn's near-upset of the Alabama Crimson Tide, though Daddy took satisfaction knowing that a lot of the folks who bet on Bama lost their shirts when the Tigers beat the spread — Shhhhhhhh, remember, gambling is illegal.

No, for me the highlight of the season was what happened in Oxford, Miss., on Nov. 21, 2009.

That was when the Klan came to Ole Miss. And caught hell for its trouble.

Let me explain.

Like most Southern universities, Ole Miss carries the burden of past racial insensitivity. But unlike some Southern universities, Ole Miss has tried hard to put that past behind it. This has resulted in conflicts between those who don't want things to change and those who do. The most recent controversy rose from the banning of the popular song — "To Dixie With Love" — which ended with students chanting, "the South will rise again."

I'm not going to get into that. As far as I am concerned, that is a family matter for the Ole Miss family to sort out.

However, as someone interested in doings down in Dixie, what happened that third Saturday in November, when Ole Miss played LSU, says a lot about where the South has come from, where it is now, and maybe where the South is going.

For me, it started when I called my buddy Bob, who was in Oxford for the game. Bob's Daddy played on the 1959 Ole Miss "Team of the Decade" that was being honored that day and they had all congregated in The Grove, which, according to many, is the premier tailgating place in the world.

Bob came on the phone, and before I could shout out "Hotty Toddy," he says, "You ain't gonna believe this (expletive deleted). The Klan is in The Grove.

"They scared Mary Jo."

Now, this upset me for Mary Jo, the youngest of Bob's three daughters, is scared of nothing. (Her sister later said it was more shock than fear, but the point is that the Klan was not what Mary Jo expected that day.)

Nor did anyone else, for that matter.

It seemed that members of the KKK, about a dozen of them, had decided that they needed to come on campus in full regalia — satin sheets and hooded — to show their solidarity with those who wanted to keep chanting "The South will rise again" and to cower the university administration into removing its ban.

They should have realized the futility of their demonstration when (according to a buddy on the faculty), the Grand Titan told the Dean of Students that there would be 100 more Klansmen in the crowd, to which the Dean replied, "I call BS (expletive again deleted) on that." The University of Mississippi was going to stand firm.

Nevertheless, the Klansmen came and took up a post on the steps of Fulton Chapel, in the heart of campus and hard against the Lyceum where the 1962 anti-integration riots took place.

Aware in advance of the Klan's intentions, an anti-Klan protest was organized; when the hooded ones arrived, this group also appeared. Wearing T-Shirts that read, "Turn your back on Hate," they marched single file to an area next to the chapel, turned their backs to the Klan and read the university's creed, which speaks of valuing all races and beliefs.

Meanwhile, a crowd gathered and Klansmen quickly found themselves in hostile territory. Shouts of "white trash" along with a few expletives filled the air. How the objects of this abuse reacted was hard to tell. They wore hoods, remember.

And then, out of the crowd, came this cry: "Go to Hell, KKK."

For the uninitiated among you, among the chants that will never be banned at Ole Miss is "Go to Hell, LSU."

From the crib, the faithful teach it to their children.

But this time, in this place, it was an LSU fan who shouted it — one of the few in purple and gold who dared enter The Grove.

Then an Ole Miss fan took up the cry. And another. And another.

It was, my friend wrote, "one of the few, if not the only, time I've seen Ole Miss fans and LSU fans come together."

Southeastern Conference football at its best.

Meanwhile, over at Bob's tent, Mary Jo, recovered from her shock, was wondering when the Klansmen were going to start singing like they do in Oh Brother Where Art Thou — her favorite movie.

But they never did.

When fans moved on to the game, the Knights of the Invisible Empire faded away.

What the Klan accomplished, as best I can tell, was to serve as an embarrassing reminder of the sort of folks who once ran Mississippi.

"A bunch of dinosaurs," was how a friend described them.

Not the purpose for which the Klansmen came, but if any good resulted from their appearance, that would be it.

Then Ole Miss beat LSU, and the university won twice that day.

Harvey H. ("Hardy") Jackson is Eminent Scholar in History at Jacksonville State University and a columnist and editorial writer for The Star. E-mail: hjackson@jsu.edu.