bluegrass

This Land: North Carolina

Okay, in our South Carolina post, we mentioned the gentle ribbing in which natives of North and South Carolina are known to engage from time to time. And the trip from Myrtle Beach, to Boone, really brought the contrasts home for Ronnie. We spoke with natives on the boardwalk at Myrtle Beach, the library in North Wilkesboro, and the Cracker Barrel in Boone. After a couple sleep cycles and a few walkabouts, Ronnie’s impressions resemble a two-state demolition derby of contrasts, and since we gotta keep this train a rollin’, here’s the admittedly brief and somewhat whimsical assessment:

First, North Carolina, that bastion of AshVIlle cool, where the air crackles with Ph.D. energy and the bookstores overflow with Derridean Phenomenology. South Carolina? They’ve got… GreenvUlle. Where the humidity clings, the fire ants sting, and the barbecue joints are serious business. Yessirreebob!

The music scene? Oh, sweet Jesus, the music! Up north, it’s all flutes and dreads, the earthy strum of acoustic guitars, the faint, sweet smell of patchouli oil wafting through the co-op. Down south? It’s hiking gear and bandanas, the twang of banjos at a bluegrass festival, and enough Realtree camo to outfit a small militia!

And the cars, yeowtch! North Carolina, land of the practical, reliable, ready for anything, and perpetually covered in a fine layer of red clay dust, Subaru. South Carolina? The sleek, the sophisticated, the ultimate driving machine, BMW!

Religion? North Carolina, with its burgeoning tiny home communities, whispers of Zen, and a general suspicion of anything too… organized. South Carolina? Mega Churches! Sprawling complexes with parking lots the size of aircraft carriers, where the faithful gather in their Sunday best to hear the good word, amplified to stadium levels!

Recreational mood lifting? North Carolina? Green Man and bowls of ganja, homegrown, shared with friends, and definitely not served with a side of kale. The local, the earthy, the “we’ve been doing it this way for generations” vibe. Think hand-carved walking sticks and a healthy skepticism of anything invented after 1970. Down South, baby! Bowls of oats, organic, gluten-free, locally sourced, and probably sprouted under a full moon. Weekend warriors, decked out in the latest Gore-Tex, ready to conquer every trail, every peak, every kombucha brewery!

The canine companions? North Carolina, the noble rescue mutt, each with a story etched in their soulful eyes, their fur a testament to a life lived… outdoors. South Carolina? Golden Doodles, prancing through the farmers’ market, their fluffy coats gleaming in the artisanal sunlight.

Leisure? North Carolina… Kitty Hawk! The windswept dunes, the birthplace of flight, where the Wright brothers dared to dream, and where the royal green is an endless expanse of Blue Ridge forests. South Carolina? Golf courses, manicured to perfection, sprawling across the landscape like emerald carpets, the domain of the well-heeled and the well-tanned.

And the people? North Carolina… Hippies! clinging to the fringes, their tie-dye shirts a defiant splash of color in a world of khakis, their vintage VW buses rumbling testaments to a different way of life. South Carolina? Yuppies! urban centers, teeming with young professionals, their eyes fixed on the next promotion, the next craft brewery, the next hot yoga class.

And let’s not forget the one thing that unites them… their shared, almost pathological need to make fun of Hendersonville! It’s the Switzerland of Carolina-bashing, the neutral territory where both sides can come together in a spirit of… well, mild derision.

But, hallelujah and amen, let’s be honest. For all the ribbing, all the contrasts, all the Tar Heel swagger and Palmetto pride… would they rather be anywhere else? North Carolina, with its mountains and its music and its… progress? South Carolina, with its beaches and its barbecue and its… soul?

Nah. They’ll take it all. The Villes and the VUlles, the flutes and the fiddles, the Beemers and the Subarus. Because, at the end of the day, it’s the Carolinas, baby! And, for these loopers, that’s a damn sight better than anywhere else.

We’ll see you in Virginia…

Onward through the fog… RH

Be on your guard…
In the Carolinas…
You may get hooked and…
Go full messiani…
From sandy beaches…
To misty mountains…
These folks are blessed to have it all.

This Land: Kentucky

Alright, alright, alright! Ronnie and Rocinante started this tour from the great state of Kansas, and in the stompin’ rock-n-roll salad days, Kansas was famous for springtime tornadoes. Well, times change, people change, and apparently weather patterns change as well. For instance, here in the Southeastern states, the approach of March and April 2025 subjected Ronnie and Rocinante to three, count ’em, three white knuckle evenings where one eye was on the online tornado trackers and the other on streaming movies. Two of those evenings featured sirens screaming, “take cover people, a funnel has been spotted!!”

Now, being a lifelong Kansas native, Ronnie’s habit is to hightail it outdoors to look for the funnel. But all three of these incidents happened at night, and those are no fun at all. So, there they were, watching for danger funnels on the radar trackers while Ronnie formulated a plan for what to do if the damn thing rolled over them. Once, they had a nearby ditch to duck into, but the other two times, just Cracker Barrel which is closed after 10:00pm. So Ronnie’s idea was to wrap himself in a substantially padded sleeping bag, strap into the passenger seat and ride it out with Rocinante. The good news? They didn’t have to resort to drastic measures on any of these evenings, but the most recent incident did scare Ronnie a bit, and the psychic reverberations are chronicled in the below dream dispatch (embellishments taken by artistic license)..

Buckle up, Buttercup, because we’re driving headfirst into the swirling, screaming maw of a river-riding tornado, a meteorological monstrosity tracing the muddy spine of the Mississippi and Ohio, a psychedelic serpent of wind and chaos, as the Mississippi, usually a languid giant, began to froth. From the trembling neon of Beale Street, a tornado, not of wind, but of memory and distorted reality, spun to life. It didn’t roar, it whispered, a chorus of forgotten river songs, bourbon-soaked laments, and the echoes of civil war battles all the way from the blues-soaked delta of Memphis to the bourbon-soaked hills of Louisville.

It started, as these things often do, with a whisper, a low growl in the humid air above Beale Street, a pregnant pause in the rhythm of the blues. Then, BOOM, a swirling vortex of fury ripped through the neon haze, sucking up stray guitar licks and the lingering scent of barbecue like a cosmic vacuum cleaner. We’re talking a twister with a goddamn attitude, folks, a hell-bent hurricane on a pilgrimage to the heart of bluegrass country.

Upriver it raged, a furious finger pointing towards Kentucky, leaving behind a trail of bewildered catfish and flattened riverboats. The swirling vortex first caught the echoes of Elvis’s ghostly hip swivels, then twisted north, past the slumbering cotton fields. The air shimmered, and we saw a young Jennifer Lawrence, not on a red carpet, but atop a wild-eyed pony, her laughter echoing across the rolling hills of her childhood farm. “Those horses,” she whispered, her voice a phantom breeze, “they knew the secrets of the land, secrets the river whispered too.” The tornado, momentarily calmed, seemed to nod, then resumed its watery ascent.

Next, the phantom funnel roared past Churchill Downs, where the ghost of Hunter S. Thompson, fueled by a lifetime of Wild Turkey and mescaline, materialized in a puff of ganja smoke. He was ranting about the “equine gentry,” their manicured hooves and bloodline arrogance, as the tornado ripped the fancy hats off the heads of bewildered spectators. “Fear and Loathing in Tornado Alley,” he’d scream, his banshee voice lost in the wind, “a goddamn vortex of pure, unadulterated madness!”

The tempest continued its journey, a whirling dervish of destruction, passing over Louisville, where the spirit of Muhammad Ali, light as a butterfly and stinging like a bee, rose to meet it. He was projected into a snowy black & white television screen reliving a defiant response to the military draft, his voice echoing through the storm, “Why should they ask me to put on a uniform and go 10,000 miles from home to drop bombs and bullets on brown people in Vietnam while so-called Negro people in Louisville are treated like dogs?” The audio glitched, he continued through the white noise, “I got no quarrel with them Viet Cong!” he said. The tornado, momentarily stunned by his sheer force of personality, seemed to hesitate, then roared on, a begrudging respect in its howl.

Further up the Ohio, the ghost of Abe Lincoln, his lanky frame emerging from the mist, pointed a spectral finger towards his “sinking spring” childhood home. “Even the land weeps,” he intoned, his voice deep and resonant, “when the balance is disturbed.” The tornado, perhaps sensing a kindred spirit in the rail-splitter’s melancholic wisdom, seemed to soften its destructive touch, leaving the old homestead relatively unscathed.

Then, the storm reached the heart of bluegrass country, where Chris Stapleton, his voice a whiskey-soaked lament, stood defiant against the swirling chaos, his trademark cowboy hat firmly planted on his head. “They told me my style was too raw, too real,” he growled, a plume of smoke curling from a phantom stem, “but the wind knows the truth.” The tornado, impressed by his gritty authenticity, seemed to bow in deference, whipping his long hair into a frenzy.

Dwight Yoakam, his voice echoing the Bakersfield sound, tipped his hat to the storm, a knowing grin on his face. “Even the Bluegrass wind respects the Bakersfield Sound,” he drawled, his voice cutting through the roar. The tornado, perhaps drawn to the twang of his soul, seemed to sway in time with the rhythm.

Finally, as the storm reached its crescendo, a spectral banjo echoed through the chaos. Bill Monroe, the father of bluegrass, materialized, a red clan robed image straight from the Coen Brothers’ movie, his eyes glowing with an otherworldly light. He plucked a haunting melody, a lament for the ravaged land, and the tornado, as if listening to a divine command, began to dissipate, its fury spent, leaving behind a trail of eerie calm and the lingering echo of the high, lonesome sound.

And so, the river-riding tornado, a psychedelic fever dream of wind and chaos, faded into the Kentucky hills, leaving behind a trail of twisted jangled nerves, tall tales, and the lingering scent of bourbon and bluegrass. Nothing like a good existential scare to bring out the vivid dreams.

Onward through the fog… Rohlfie

In Kentucky…
Old Man River…
Has marked the boundaries…
Has been the giver…
Deep and wide…
The greatness flows…
All this and bourbon whisky too.

This Land: Arkansas

Arkansas, the Natural State, is a curious juxtaposition of backwoods charm and surprising sophistication. It’s a place where towering pines meet sprawling Walmart parking lots, and where the echoes of Johnny Cash’s mournful baritone mingle with the twang of a bluegrass dobro.

Here are a few impressions as we ease into Hot Springs or Busk, Phase IV:

THE GOOD: Arkansas is home to several natural hot springs, many of which are open to the public. The most famous is Hot Springs National Park, which features 47 naturally occurring springs. Other notables include those found in the Ouachita Mountains and the Ozarks. Arkansas has a rich cultural history as well, with several famous landmarks. These include the boyhood home of Johnny Cash in Kingsland, the birthplace of Al Green in Forest City, and Billy Bob Thornton, born right there in Hot Springs.

For outdoor enthusiasts, Arkansas features mountains, forests, lakes, and rivers. The Ozark Mountains and the Ouachita Mountains are particularly popular for hiking, camping, and fishing. The Buffalo National River is widely regarded as the state’s best natural sightseeing location. This scenic river is renowned for kayaking, canoeing, fishing, and hiking.

As for the cost of living. Arkansas is generally lower than the national average, making it attractive for families and retirees, residents are known for their warm and welcoming hospitality. A big plus is the rich culinary tradition, with dishes like barbecue, catfish, and fried pies. Arkansas cuisine is a hearty affair that will satisfy even the most discerning palate. And don’t forget the sweet tea, a beverage so beloved by Arkansans that it’s practically a religion.

Arkansans are a hearty breed, known for their hospitality and their dry wit. They’ll welcome you with open arms, but don’t be surprised if they also give you a sideways glance and a knowing smirk. It’s a state where folksy wisdom and modern cynicism coexist.

As for famous Figures, there is quite a list: Bill Clinton, Johnny Cash, Levon Helm, Glen Campbell, Douglas MacArthur, John Grisham, Mary Steenburgen, and many more.

THE BAD: Arkansas has one of the lowest education attainment rates in the country, access to quality healthcare can be limited in some parts of the state, and the state’s infrastructure, particularly its roads and bridges, is in need of improvement. The state is a patchwork quilt of contradictions. It’s home to the serene beauty of the Ozarks and the eerie allure of Hot Springs National Park, a place where time seems to slow down and the earth itself steams. Yet, it’s also a place where poverty and opportunity often clash, a place where the past clings to the present. While the state’s natural beauty is undeniable, its infrastructure can be a bit of a rollercoaster ride. The roads, especially in the rural areas, can be as winding and unpredictable as a post-pandemic general election. But hey, that’s part of the charm, right?

THE UGLY: While Ronnie & Rocinante noted a fairly easy trek through the urban centers of Little Rock and North Little Rock, there are plenty of snags due to ongoing road construction. That said, less populated areas of the state can suffer from limited resources to health care, education, and infrastructure. This reminds us of a song found in the Harry Smith collection of American folk music. A ditty called “My Name is John Johanna” sometimes known as “The State of Arkansas”. The song tells the story of an unfortunate young man who finds himself appalled at the living and working conditions in Arkansas. The state of Arkansas was admitted to the Union in 1836. This song draws on fairly typical frontier stereotypes, Arkansas being a largely untamed wilderness during the mid-19th century.

My name is John Johanna, i came from Buffalo town. For nine long years i’ve traveled this wide wide world around. Through ups and downs and miseries and some good days i saw, But i never knew what misery was ’til i went to Arkansas.

To be fair, conditions in Arkansas are significantly improved since the 19th Century. Ronnie has family from the state and they are doing quite well. But, as earlier indicated, there are still areas for improvement. Even though many in the urban centers are enjoying upper-middle class to straight up opulent conditions for modest prices as compared to states like California, New York, or Washington State.

So, if you’re looking for a place where the ordinary meets the extraordinary, where the past and the present collide, then Arkansas might just be the place for you… Its natural beauty, affordable living, and friendly people make it an attractive place to live, work, and visit. However, the state also faces challenges in areas like education, healthcare, and infrastructure.

Onward through the fog… RH

You got your good days…
You have your bad days…
In Arkansas…
You found your getaway…
From the bubblin’ hot springs…
To winding country roads…
Life here is ah la Natural.

Loopcircus