Do Not Be Alarmed!

These words are typed by me, not in a hospital but, in the comfort of my own back porch. I am alive and well...full of vim and vigor...rejuvenated by yet another failed attempt on my life by Satan's hand puppet.

Screwtape there is a young'n...he'll be black as lump charcoal in a few years...won't be any more full of venom though. He's already wired for sound. I stepped right over him looking for a golf ball. I heard the unmistakable sound of a snake moving over dried leaves right behind me...right behind me. Like at my heel.

F*&%$ER!!!

Long time readers, of this and the various blogs, will know this is not the first time the Devil has sent his dirty workers after me; however, this is the first time I've been tracked out of state. This attempt came in Georgia...Lake Park, Georgia.

Do not be alarmed...I survived the attempted attack...and sent him slithering back to his boss with a message...

There is Another Side

Just to reiterate the ultimate point of my last post...

"Y'all sent me on this terrible bachelorette party and all I got was a snakebite."

 



I rest my case...you want surnames?

We know one of these fellas...in fact, the Boy has spent the night at the family's house.

DISCLAIMER: as I know it will be of great interest to many of our readers, not only were no snakes harmed during the filming but they're probably saving many non-poisonous snakes from being killed in the drive way. They deal directly, and question, the normal reaction that any sane person would have to seeing a snake...which is to kill it without a second thought...and suggest that it's an irrational response.

Sorry I'm just gonna confess here...I will kill them if I see them. I guess I'm a horrible person but I have been chased, have looked into the beady abyss and seen what a snake bite does to a human leg. The only way I'll grab a snake is with a shotgun.

I love the rowdiness and the decay that can be found from one end of Dixie to the other. It's not only beautiful but it makes an important statement about the impermanence of material and the foolishness of putting any faith in it. There is another side though.

There is a grandeur to The South that I am often guilty of ignoring here. There is the beauty of the dogwoods and azaleas, the magnolias and loblollies...and the live oaks. The unassailable taste and quaint manners...the old money beauty of it.

Nowhere is this side more gorgeously realized than during the Master's Tournament at Augusta National in Georgia.

Martha is, at this very moment, balling as Justin Spieth, this year's winner, hugs his Momma.

 

It is a cathedral...glorifying the natural beauty of The South and it is a celebration of it's gentile mores. Five dollars will still get you a pimento cheese sandwich...yelling "YOU DA MAN" or "IN DA HOLE" will still you get you an escort off the grounds. Mind you're manners...this is Georgia not the U.S. Open. This morning, Nick Faldo...that's Sir Nick Faldo to you, said that, off the course, it's the greatest sporting event in the world. "On the course," it's the greatest "by a mile."

 



There's a Thursday afternoon every year in the Spring when I have to fight back the tears. It's not just the overwhelming Southern Beauty of the place, though that does crush, but the memories I have with my Daddy and now with my son...being crouched around the TV (this hasn't changed despite the size of the TV and crispness of the picture) anxiously watching a putt hug the meticulous contours of a green, past the pink azaleas...through the shadow of a dogwood in bloom...watching, covering our faces, peaking....

EDIT...The Boy climbed up in my lap this morning while waiting for his momma to finish getting dressed. He wanted to see the Snakegrabber videos...he's pretty pumped about Mr. Brent...then he wanted see the video of Augusta. He said something about playin there....I would walk buck naked from here to Augusta if it meant getting to play just one hole. I asked him so..."you gonna play there one day."
He turned his head and looked at me, with the most serious expression he could muster..."I am going to win a green jacket." At this point I have no reason to doubt him.

If The River Was Whiskey

Grand Gulf isn't just a military park. They have lots of interesting local artifacts there.

Do we need any further proof that there was serious money in bootleggin'?

Prohibition didn't end in Mississippi until the 60's. That don't mean there weren't a thriving, and well regulated, brown liquor market in the state. Far from it... Black Market Tax . In fact, it was a raid on a Junior League Ball, attended by the Governor, that finally forced the state's hand. There was no rush to legalize akahol. The bootleggers were getting rich, the state and state officials were getting their cut, and the Baptists were happy (the last thing they wanted was to have to buy theirs in a public establishment...hahaha. Do you know why you always take more than one Baptist fishing at a time...because if you take just one he'll drink all your booze. :oohyeahthat'sagoodone:).

A family friend, who died recently, used to get paid 50 bucks to run a trunkload of whiskey from Vicksburg to Jackson when he was a teenager in the 50's. You can still get moonshine here without much trouble.

I think it's also important to mention that we have a short but significant history with submarines. The Confederate submarine H.L. Hunley was the first submarine to ever sink a ship. It took down the USS Housatonic....known up until that point for seizing a British blockade runner that was trying to deliver two ship engines for Confederate Inronclads. It was a serious blow. Take note Scots...it was one of your ships the bastards stole. Sadly, neither the crew or the submarine survived the exchange but they sank that b**CH!

While we're briefly on the subject, today in 1865, William Catledge of the 5th Florida Infantry, CSA, was paroled at Appomattox (one of 53 men that were left of the 5th). He was my Grandmother's maternal Grandfather. He wasn't the only Catledge that fought and her paternal side was also well represented but, it's William's name that appears, after about 6 pages of Campbells, among the list of those that were present at what amounted to the bitter, bitter end.

 You would be forgiven for thinking that this was a portable torture device carried by the U.S. army used to extract intelligence from the locals but...NO! This torture device was willingly worn by our Belles. That's what was under the hood of those old gorgeous hooped dresses.

Residents of the area remain on guard from attacks to this day. There's a nuclear power plant just a few miles from the park. She is ready for shenanigans...in fact, she kinda looks like she wakes up every morning hoping somebody will try her.

There's Yankees to worry about, terror attacks...it's like the Devil's petting zoo around there...

...it is going to Flood!

Then there's us....a danger that, while it may be unintentional, can never be dismissed.



We are them. Those of us who weren't kidnapped from West Africa are anglo-celts who were too poor and rowdy to live in Scotland, Ireland and t'North of England...who have spent the last 200 years procreating in swamps. We have moonshine, guns, submarines and a nuclear power plant! What could possibly go wrong. HA!

Not Too Pretty to Burn

On Good Friday, me and The Boy took a trip to Grand Gulf State Park. Grad Gulf is right on the river...maybe 20 miles south of Vicksburg. When I say on the river...I mean nervously close to the River. The water on Friday was up to the little two lane road opposite the park.

It won't surprise you to hear that my arch enemy took his most gruesome form on this lane a few years ago. I was in the car when Satan's House Pet crossed my path...the blackest, fattest, most ghoulish, ugggh...and it still gives me shivers.

There's not really a town here anymore. The first one was burned down by David Farrugut...Furragut, whatever, David Yankee, as part of the U.S. invasion of Mississippi during Lincoln's war.

It was burned in 1862...cause that's what they did. Then in May of 1863, they came back to seize the charred remains in order to use the gulf as a supply point for the invading army. Unfortunately for him and his...Georgia born, Gen John S. Bowen

had prepared the hills around what was left of the town. There Hoskins' Light Artillery, from Brookhaven, MS were splint between two small "forts."  Hoskins' gunners with 13 light pieces fought off seven US gunships, firing some 2,500 rounds into the Confederate positions...they even disabled one of the ships.

Sadly, it was barely a setback for grant. They just moved down river and landed unopposed and marched on Port Gibson ("Too Beautiful To Burn" - U.S. Grant. How cute.) where Bowen, severely outnumbered, was forced to retreat after a day's fighting.  Grand Gulf was evacuated.

I have to tell you...reading Bowen's CV is an exercise in excruciation for an unreconstructed Southron. He had predicted where the Yankees would attack and had repeatedly requested reinforcements from Pemberton in Vicksburg...DENIED. They weren't run out of Port Gibson...they were in an untenable position because of sheer numbers and had to withdraw. At the Battle of Corinth, MS...he had overrun a significant US position. Instead of exploiting the advantage...his commander Van &*&^&ing Dorn called a halt. At Champions Hill...Bowen led an attack that was on the verge of breaking the Yankee center but, AGAIN, he was not supported!

Taken prisoner after the fall of Vicksburg, Bowen died of dysentery after being paroled...32 years old. Did I mention that this Jedi was a Georgian?  Damn right I did...you want me to tell you again? :)

While we're here...let's hear from Robbie Robertson. A Canadian who has gifted The South with genuine treasure. About the song...he said he wanted to express the dignified sadness he often encountered in Southerners. He had Levon there for guidance I'm sure but, it's Robertson's song and it is cherished.*



Up on the hill behind the "forts" is an old cemetery.

It's my favorite place on the park.

As an aside for C...we saw the most outrageously yellow little bird I've ever seen in my life there.

Not far from Grand Gulf...just off the Natchez Trace is the site of Rocky Springs. At one time there were 1,500 souls there...between the war and disease the town was abandoned by 1930. There is a church there...built in the 1830's. That's a rare specimen in these parts. It has a fabulous old cemetery. There are a couple of Confederate Veterans buried there but they very recent additions compared to the others. It's in the same style but possessed of a more grand decay. I was gonna take the Boy by there on the way home but he was passed out by then.

There's an old Dog Trot or Cracker House on the property. We have fantasies of building one of these on a sandy piece of property, shaded by Live Oaks, somewhere along the gulf coast one day.

This picture has global significance. Those are azaleas....they are swarming with Bumble Bees. I've read that bumble bees are disappearing around the world. Well, it turns out, they are disappearing to Grand Gulf, MS. There must have been 100 of these fat stingers buzzing around the various buildings. The Boy finally couldn't take it anymore despite my insistence that they weren't going to sting him. I think he was just sleepy.

Halfway there he had generously offered to let me listen to my "disc." Big Star Third.

"Does he sing like this for every song?"
"Yep."
"This the worst singing ever."
By the time we got to Jesus Christ he had settled in to it. Ha.




See Charity Chic  for an interesting post on that other Canadian. :)

More on Grand Gulf to come....

Co'cola not Coke a Co-lahhhh

My Daddy's been up for the last week or so...always a pleasure. Last weekend him and Martha were out trimmin' the bushes (I was napping) when Daddy got tore up by some wasps. By that evening his hand was swolled up pretty bad. There was only one thing to be done for it...he'd have to go see my sister and milk some anti-venom from her fangs.

In exchange, she kept him there two nights...drastic circumstances call for drastic measures but, I'm not sure I would have been willing to pay that price.

He did come back with this clip though...



For those of you not in the U.S....try this Buford Calloway.

If you were humorless, there are some problems here...chief among them being the old Yankee adage that a man's not a man unless the snow falls on his back...but, we are not humorless here. This s*** is hilarious...and fairly accurate! We don't do snow and the best place for you to be in a dusting is at home...with the doors locked. We fear snow like a Lancastrian fears the Sun.

The Georgian shot at South Carolina was a nice touch.

One thing though...it's Co'cola...not coke a co-lahhhh. :)

What the Shabbat?!

Gentle readers...it's right there in my profile. I kaynt spell. If it doesn't get a redline I don't look back...yeah, autofill presents problems and dangers for me....being in a blind rage doesn't help either.

I would just like to set the record straight Spliff, Scott...I am not Jewish. Martha is not Jewish and nothing that has happened has anything to do with the misconception, started by me, that we are.

What I meant to say was that I don't come from a GENTLE background....reasonable, peaceful, etc. I come from red-clay red necks and my immediate response to a situation like the one we are in now is to experience a raging almost poisonous surge of testosterone....burn something down and piss on it.

Buuuuuut.....while we're at, why not see if there's any plausibility to the claim. Maybe we can add anti-Semitism to the list of grievances.

Bartlam is a Midlands' derivation of Bartholomew. Bartholomew was one of the original apostles. He had to have been Jewish.

I am not a dispensationalist. I don't believe God has special deals with the nation of Israel (or any of the other wacky stuff that sometimes comes along with this belief).  We'll skip the theological setup and just get straight to the punchline...Christians are Jews. Since we are dealing with a soulless entity that can't genuinely claim Judaism or any other religion...

Now I'm even more madder...fightin' mad.

For the record Martha is Scottish and Irish...My family is almost entirely English (North west and  West Midlands to put a finer point on it)...but for the rare rouge Irish or Scottish branch sprouting crookedly from the tree.

Yer Biscuits

In the late summer of 2003, me and Martha loaded our possessions on a truck, said goodbye to family and friends and left the pleasant leafy neighborhood of Belhaven for a rickity townhouse, on a dingy street, in the wretched city of New Haven, Connecticut. I was enrolled at Yale for an MA in history.

I will always be grateful for the opportunity and to the people who made it possible but living in New Haven was worse than boot camp. It is a crowded, wind blown, broken down, boarded up, rusted out, trash strewn frozen dump...literally, it's a dump. I think most of New England's raw sewage eventually makes its way down to New Haven. New England raw sewage...let that simmer.



Among other things, it had a deleterious affect on the appetite...not such a problem really because, while the food may be fine as kinds of food (mostly Italian and seafood)...every place we went was dank and musty. Even cooking at home was problematic. After a comment by Martha's aunt, who is originally from Connecticut, I became disgusted by the thought of using the tap water.

At this point, I must admit, I had moved from a reasonable response to a dirty environment to a more pathological problem....shortly I would break out in hives and deal with them off and on for the rest of our time there.*

In fairness I have to point out that New Haven has great local rootbeer and the pizza is fantastic. Fair warning, if you're ever in New Haven, get the pizza to go...just so you don't end up sitting next to the tiny, thin-walled, unventilated toilet where shameless New Englanders will make themselves boisterously at home.

Still...a redneck's gotta eat. Fortunately...well sorta fortunately, fortunatishly...there is an option anywhere you go east of the Mississippi River...Cracker Barrel. It's a chain of country store/restaurants that have been selling Southern groceries to Yankees for decades (Atlanta was as far south as they went for years...what was the point?).

Cracker Barrels are like Waffle House in that there are good ones and bad ones. There is a Cracker Barrel in New Haven....Right.  Good or bad they all have grits and biscuits on the menu. So, one morning I decided to get up at 5am and drive to the other side of town for breakfast (it had to be 5am because of the mind boggling congestion...there was a point after 7am when it became impossible to get anywhere in under two hours). Cracker Barrel grits are quick grits...I could've bought some bottled water and made the grits myself. The biscuits are another story and they have a branded maple syrup that is delicious. That was my focus.

We got off to a bad start with the grits. It's nearly impossible to mess up quick grits but they managed...serving me a bowl of hot gritty water with a frown. Still I had my biscuits. All I needed was some syrup.

"Ma'am...could get some syrup please?"

"Whaaaadduhya want syee-rup for...ya' biscuits?" She was incredulous...and slightly disgusted.

"Yes ma'am...please."

"Ooooooooookay."

Most of y'all have heard me speak...no matter where I've gone in the English speaking world no one has ever had trouble placing me on the map.** I wanted to say to her..."listen Scout...you have your current job because people that sound (and look...but that's another story) like me eat a certain way...now **** off to the kitchen and get my syrup before I ask you to bring me some peanut butter too."

Of course, I didn't say any of that. I just left her with a "bless your heart" smile and never went back.



Then there was the episode with a sour old cow from Wisconsin at a Cracker Barrel around here in Pearl. 

We had a friend from Indiana down to visit (i.e. down to drink). Next to Waffle House, there's no better place to feed a hangover than Cracker Barrel....evidenced by the fact that, on this Sunday morning, we had to wait outside for a table. That's when we met the old heffer...Sittin in one of the rocking chairs with a scawl on her face. It was hard to tell whether her eyes were narrowed or just hidden behind lumps of flesh. Her most prominent feature was a bottom lip that stuck out much further than her broad flat nose...there was the last whispers of blonde on what was left of her hair. She was wearing like a tent...a moo moo or whatever you call it.

As soon as my friend opened his mouth...

"Where are you from?" She demanded.

"I'm from Indi-ana."

That was all it took...

"I'm traveling through here from Wiscaaaaansin. Did you see that jar of pickled pigs feet on the counter. God these people will eat anything."

Hold it right there Frau.

First of all...I'm one of "these people". Mind your manners...oh yeah. That's right...you don't have any.

Secondly, being from Wisconsin you might want to settle your ass a little considering that people in this state were forced, in large part by people from yours, to eat whatever they could get their hands on. Hopefully they'll keep closing your factories and sending them to Mexico and China...so you people can develop a taste for pig ears.

Lastly...and MOST OBVIOUSLY...you just pulled off the Interstate, with intent, to eat at a restaurant that specifically and loudly and exclusively....serves Southern groceries.

WTF....I ask you W...T...F?

All the disgust and fascination with...the desire for and repulsion by...sat in a rocking chair in Pearl.

What can you say...what can you do?



Just keep eatin' I reckon.

* This had more to do with the people than it did the grim surroundings. They started on the last day of a visit back to Mississippi...just before I was getting ready to head back.

** There was an episode at a bar in London...a man was actually kicked out because he wouldn't stop telling me how sexy he though my "Texas" accent was. That's a true story. Ha!

Cairo (Kay-Row)

Like the sign says...there, between Banbridge and Cairo, Georgia, in Whigham County, on the last Saturday of January...Rattlesnake Round Up. It's not a play on words....it's a mess of rattle snakes that have been rounded up in the area. You can watch them pop balloons and watch idiots be idiots with rattle snakes (I recently saw a man on tv put a bunch of them in his mouth in front of a small crowd for an even smaller fee...he got bit). They demonstrate how the venom is milked for anti-venom and you can eat 'em. I did...breaded and fried. Taste like squirrel...which kinda taste like gator...which really just taste like chicken. That must have been more than 30 years ago now.

They're still rounding them up though. In that part of Georgia and Florida you'll see signs up offering so much money per snake...not enough.



Tuscaloosa, Alabama...there are many things to love about Tuscaloosa...this is one of them. I don't even know what it was there for...car lot maybe...diner. Who knows. It sits behind a gas station now, near a ledge that separates it from the parking lot of Chinese buffet. It's not a very pleasant block and probably everything on it should be condemned but, I would imagine he persists there because no one wants to claim responsibility for tearing him down.




Madison Florida...probably the very edge of the cities jurisdiction. There was a bbq and juke there...maybe a hotel. I've been going to Madison all my life...41 years and it's been burnt down, and in that state, at least since then. If they ever do clear that lot I'll cry.



Somewhere along I-10 in North Florida.



Is there any place more beautiful in the cosmos than a fireworks stand...No!



Like you're author...North Florida Crackers.

Mississippi Kid

Alright then...that was Louisiana this week. Actually the place I stayed in Alexandria wasn't nearly so nice as that. Is there anyone here who doubts my slobbering devotion to Dixie? Well, even I have trouble making something romantic out of north Louisiana (as opposed to south Louisiana which is one of my favorite places on the part of the map that matters) I'm pretty sure those arrows are pointing east toward Mississippi...though given Byzantine layout of Alexandria (bypasses, three way stops off of frontage roads, loops to nowhere...loops...to nowhere) could probably just pick a spot on the compass and you wouldn't be wrong.

For me the arrows are pointing east-southeast through Alabama and Georgia into North Florida. I'm heading out, in the morning, to spend a few days with my Daddy...playing golf and drinking coffee. A decades old winning formula.

Provisions for the trip have been gathered...



Instead of the usual route that would take me down through Mobile, Alabama and along the Panhandle of Florida, I'm going first to Birmingham...then I'll wind my way down through Montgomery into the Wiregrass, with a swing through Georgia...just because.

I have my reasons, other than the fact that I've been making that same ride through Mobile for 25 years...namely Full Moon BBQ and the Birmingham Museum of Art. I had been under the impression that they had a collection of works by Jonathan Lasker...that was why I had originally made plans to go that way. I don't think his work is there anymore but...they have just reopened the African art collection (in the grand reopening was today)...so my plans are the same.

For the curious, Jonathan Lasker and African masks and shields have as much to do with my paintings as tractor trailers and firework stands. Which is to say, a great deal.