Ronnie Hays

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: South Carolina

So, we’re rolling into South Carolina, aye? And there ain’t any hot springs. Nada. Zip. Zilch.

THE GOOD: South Carolina’s got plenty of choices for college. Little ones, medium-sized ones… like a box of assorted chocolates, only instead of sweet surprises, you get knowledge. Or something like that. You’ve got your College of Charleston, your Furman University, your Wofford College… even Clemson, though it’s so big it practically needs its own zip code.

And if you’re a bookworm, don’t despair. South Carolina might not be Faulkner country, but it’s got its own literary quirks. The Gibbes Museum in Charleston has enough Southern art and literature to make your head spin. Plus, the whole state’s littered with historic homes and plantations – you know, the kind with long, shadowy porches and a whole lotta history (and maybe a few ghosts) tucked away inside.

Now, if you ask a South Carolinian what they love about their state, they’ll probably start waxing poetic about the scenery. Mountains, beaches, swamps… it’s like Mother Nature threw a dart at a map and said, “Let’s put it all right here.” Of course, they’ll also mention the history. Charleston, in particular, is like stepping into a time machine, with its cobblestone streets and Gullah culture. And the people? Well, they’re friendly, that’s for sure. Southern hospitality ain’t just a saying, folks.

Oh, and did we mention the cost of living? Compared to some places (uh, California), South Carolina’s practically giving it away. So if you’re young and broke but still clinging to that tattered American Dream, this could be your destiny.

THE BAD: The infrastructure… some of those roads are so bumpy, you’ll think you’re riding a buckboard wagon. And the summers? Hoo boy. Imagine a sauna that also happens to be outside. That’s the dog days of July and August in South Carolina.

THE UGLY: The political climate? Let’s just say it’s redder than a sunburn. In 1932, most of South Carolina voters, nearly all white in a state where nearly half the residents were Black but not able to cast ballots, chose Liberal FDR for president at the start of the Great Depression. Ever since, the conservative backlash has been long, steady, and at times infused by racism. Among the landmark moments include Strom Thurmond’s 24-hour filibuster against the Civil Rights act in 1954, then his decision to switch to the Republican Party continuing the fight to block civil rights legislation in Congress.

So, who’s who from South Carolina? Well, there’s Darius Rucker, the country crooner who used to front Hootie and the Blowfish. There’s William Refrigerator Perry, lineman for the Chicago Bears in the 1980s. There’s James Brown, the hardest working man in show business. And the ever-graceful Vanna White from the Wheel of Fortune game show. Oh, and let’s not forget Strom Thurmond. Yeah, South Carolina’s got a complicated past.

Now, Ronnie hasn’t resided East of the Mississippi, so he can’t say for sure what the people in the two Carolinas think of one another. But we’ve heard whispers. Apparently, North Carolinians think South Carolinians are a bit slow. Laid-back, even. And South Carolinians? Well, they think North Carolinians are a bit uptight. All work and no play, you know the type. But hey, at the end of the day, they’re both Southern states. They love their college football, their barbecue, and their beaches. So maybe they’re not so different after all.

Anyway, South Carolina’s an interesting place. It’s beautiful and frustrating, welcoming and backward, all at the same time. The job market’s getting better, but it’s still tough to make a decent living in some parts. And while the state’s slowly becoming more diverse, it’s still got a long way to go.

So, is South Carolina for you? That’s a question only you can answer. But if you do decide to take the plunge, just remember: pack your sense of humor, your mosquito repellent, and your open mind. You’re gonna need ’em.

Onward through the fog… RH

As we were rolling…
‘Long a Carolina shoreline…
We saw the truth…
Across the skyline…
It brought us back to…
First principles…
This land is here…
For you and me.

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: Tennessee

Ok… there we were… Memphis, TN… home of Graceland and, if we may be so bold, some of the worst highways and city roads poor Rocinante had been forced to endure on this tour. We didn’t hit a tire killer, but that’s only because Ronnie practices hypervigilance when traveling Tennessee roads. Read, he’d seen this show before… he came prepared. That said, we had a super pleasant stay in Memphis. Not all of the roads were peppered with tank-traps. For example, the eastside Germantown area is quite nice. It reminded Ronnie of some of those old money neighborhoods in Kansas City. Anyway, on laundry day, waiting for machines to do their business, Ronnie struck up a conversation with one of the patrons. We’ll refer to him as Ronnie’s “laundromat companion” (LC). After some brief introductory exchanges, Ronnie’s LC launched into a string of Music Biz-related anecdotes, slightly embellished below.

Turns out, Ronnie’s LC is from old money, himself, but chose a vagabond’s life over joining the family business. He struck out on his own doing various music-biz functionary tasks, traveling the world with this band or that. In the process, got to meet and work with quite a few of the stars most of us only see in the tabloids or on stages. Now, Ronnie wasn’t about to let this opportunity pass so, with encouraging nods and mostly closed mouth (don’t laugh), he took it all in.

“Well, now, let me tell you, Ronnie,” he said. “Tennessee’s music scene ain’t just fiddles and steel guitars. It’s a regular circus, i tell ya. A regular menagerie of the peculiar.”

“First off, there’s Elvis, ‘The Kang’ himself.” At this point, Ronnie couldn’t believe his luck, and this LC raconteur was just getting warmed up. “Now, you’d think a man with that much hip-swivelin’ talent would have the good sense to get himself a pup, like any respectable fella. But no, sir,” LC was on a roll. “Elvis, flush with his first taste of fame, decided he needed a monkey. And not just any monkey, mind you, but a spider monkey.” Ronnie nodded, having heard this particular story before. However, LC wasn’t done. “Then, as that wasn’t enough monkeyshine, he brought home a moonshine-swilling chimpanzee he called Scatter, a ‘coconut-headed little mother fucker,’ as Elvis would call him. Imagine the chaos! I reckon those critters saw more booze than a saloon floor on a Saturday night.” Ronnie agreed, anxious to hear more.

“Then there’s the Ryman Auditorium, that grand old cathedral of country music. Built by a man of the same name, who, they say, still wanders the halls like a lost gospel tune. Folks swear they hear noises, see lights flicker, and some even claim Hank Williams Sr. is still there, singin’ his lonesome tunes.” Ronne offered a lame missive, “Maybe he’s just lookin’ for a decent after-life honky-tonk.” Ronnie’s LC winked and carried on.

“And speaking of lonesome tunes,” LC’s segues were tight, as if he had had plenty of experience providing soundbites to interviewers, which by some cosmic synchronicity happened to be a skill Ronnie had honed in his working life as an electronic-media educator. “It’s all in the eyes,” Ronnie might say. LC continued, “…there’s Willie Nelson. Now, Willie, bless his edible cannaboid heart. He’s a man who appreciates the finer things in life, like… well.” He winked again. A friendly sort of ‘know what i mean?’ way.

Ronnie was keeping up without too much trouble. And since Tennessee doesn’t have legal weed for recreation, there was no talk of sharing a toke. Anyway, LC picked up where he left off, “Willie even claims he lit up a joint on the roof of the White House during Jimmy Carter’s time, the 1970s. On the roof! I tell you, that’s bolder than a bullfrog in a teacup.” Ronnie nodded. “Snoop Dogg, take notes,” Ronnie was warming up to this fella.

“Now, don’t go thinkin’ these music stars live a life of pure luxury,” LC continued. “Johnny Paycheck, of ‘Take This Job and Shove It’ fame, proved that wrong. He stopped for a drink on his way to see his mama, and some fella recognized him. Invited him for deer meat and turtle soup, which, to be fair, sounds like a dish straight out of a Ma and Pa Kettle episode.” Ronnie chuckled and LC took a sip of his soda. “Well, Johnny, he wasn’t havin’ it. He pulled a gun and asked the fella if he looked like a ‘country hick,’ then let a round fly, grazing the poor yokel’s scalp.” Ronnie was astonished, he hadn’t heard this one before. LC continued. “Nine years they gave him, but they let him out early. Seems the judge could appreciate a rare talent when he saw one.”

At this point LC and Ronnie had to move their respective laundry from washers to dryers. But once the tumbling got underway, the stories resumed. Ronnie remembered LC had mentioned working for George Jones at one point, so he encouraged LC to expand on that. “Now, i called George Jones, the ‘lawnmower man,’ LC began. I called him that because his wife, bless her drunk-wranglin’ heart, tried to keep him away from the bottle by hidin’ his car keys. Too bad she forgot about the lawnmower.” This sounded familiar to Ronnie, but he thought is was about someone else. Anyway, LC went on. “A ten horsepower rotary engine riding mower. He rode that thing all the way to Beaumont, Texas, 16ish miles.” Ronnie glanced at the tumbling laundry. This sure was more exciting than watching clothes dry. “Now that’s that’s dedication,” Ronnie said.

On the laundromat’s TV, a feature about T-Bone Burnett and his soundtrack for the Coen Brothers movie, “Oh Brother Where Art Thou” was on and that reminded LC of a Bill Monroe anecdote. “Mr. Monroe, the father of bluegrass, a devout man, mind you. But even saints have their limits. He got himself arrested for hittin’ his ex-girlfriend with a bible. The word of God! And then, they let him go.” Ronnie sighed, “That’s taking bible thumpin’ to a new level,” joking. Ronnie’s LC chuckled. “I recon you got that right.”

As the dryers’ time grew short, Ronnie’s LC wrangled up one more wild Tennessee music biz anecdote. This one for for the ladies. “Sweet Dolly,” Ronnie’s LC drawled on. “Now, she’s a queen, no doubt about it. But even queens can be out-queened. She entered herself in a Dolly drag contest in Santa Barbara, and lost!”

“W-what,” Ronnie couldn’t believe what he was hearing!? “That’s right, she made her hair bigger, her eyes bigger, her beauty mark bigger, everything bigger, and still lost,” Ronnie’s LC said. She said she had gotten the least applause.” LC shrugged, “I reckon that’s the kind of humility you only find in a true legend.”

And with that, Ronnie and his LC had clothes to fold. Once finished, they bid fare well and went their separate ways. And, there you have it, loopers. A little slice of Tennessee’s musical madness. It ain’t always pretty, but it’s always entertaining.

Onward through the fog… Rohlfie

Keep your eyes peeled…
Drivin’ through Memphis…
The potholes deadly…
Will break your senses…
But take a moment…
To offer reverence…
Music is born in Tennessee.

This Land – Louisiana

On the road to Alexandria, Ronnie and Rocinante pulled into a mud bug shack for a bite before settling in for the night. Striking up a conversation with the bartender, Ronnie asked about all those Apostolic churches he was passing on the Louisiana back roads. In the next hour and a half, Ronnie got waaaay more than he bargained for. The bartender had a mellow drawl Ronnie found mesmerizing… a combination of Southern gentry and creole. His ample snow white beard reminded Ronnie of those Park Avenue Santas helping New York parents discover the hopes and dreams of their little ones. He had the dark skin and flashing blue eyes of an avid sun worshipper, projecting the relaxed countenance of a lifelong beachcomber. His loose fitting color patterned shirt reminded Ronnie of African Dashikis, but the style was more like something you would expect to see at a Grateful Dead concert. The bartender seemed intrigued about Ronnie’s curiosity, and so began to unspool a strange tale of spiritual divergence in the great state of Louisiana.

He told the story of Amos Moses, a Cajun of mixed heritage. Some say he’s indigenous, some say his ancestry has deep roots in Palestine, some say Hebrew, and some say he’s Mexican-American, but most interestingly, there is talk among the bayou natives that Amos was a baby floating in a wicker basket, in the swamp, sorta like the Moses of biblical lore. They say he was home schooled in the bayou and currently roams the Mississippi/Louisiana swamps alone in a semi-reclusive stasis.

Anyway, the story heats up with interesting reports of things that happen around Amos. People having lost sight, suddenly able to see again. Others seemingly on death’s door, miraculously recovering after a short visit. Also, some of the cryptic things he says have been interpreted to contain deep spiritual meaning to those in earshot. Some have claimed Amos’ words hit them like lightning bolts, instantly transporting them to a more enlightened existence. Like the Zen Masters of old, he spins koen-like puzzles that shake the fetters from these troubled souls. And there is a genuine movement coalescing around Amos. The locals are beginning to believe this fella is the actual reincarnation of the biblical Yeshua, or as westerners call him, Jesus of Nazareth.

Now, controversy is building because, in Louisiana, there are Apostolic churches everywhere. In the poor parishes, of which there are many, and more affluent ones as well. Since the 2016 presidential election, you may have heard a thing or two about the New Apostolic Reformation. For those unfamiliar, this is a branch of Christianity declaring “spiritual war” on western liberal democracy. From their tough talk, one might think they are ready to take up arms and do physical harm to their non-Christian Nationalist neighbors, though it seems no one really believes they’ll walk that talk. That said, the apostolics have friends in high places. Sam Alito, the Supreme Court justice, for example. The Speaker of the House of Representatives, Louisiana native, Mike Johnson for another.

Anyway, the movement brewing around Amos Moses aims to make a clear distinction between this New Apostolic Reformation’s “holy war” and the actual teachings of the biblical Yeshua. Why? Because, according to Amos’ devotees, the anticipated moment has arrived. Yeshua has returned, but it’s not like the apocalyptic Christian sects think. The movement growing around Amos wants everyone to know the end-times tone of apostle John’s “Book of Revelation” is not to be taken for anything more than a commentary on the fall of the Roman Empire of John’s day. Most likely, if John had known his words would be taken literally two thousand plus years later, he would have been amused, at best.

So, Amos’ followers believe he is the second coming of Yeshua, but Amos himself, having grown tired of arguing about it (like Brian in Monty Python’s satire), declares that if it IS true, he wants everyone to get back to the original intent of his past self’s teachings, and please don’t try to elevate him to a position of political power.

“For fuck sake,” Amos is notorious for letting the swears fly! “The ‘kingdom of God’ is an ephemeral idea, not of this world, and certainly not a literal form of governance… Jesus Jumpin’ Christ,” he ironically moans!

All that said, this brewing mythology could simply be a case of mass hysteria. But if not, Amos Moses, reincarnation of Yeshua of Nazareth, is bound to have a thing or two to discuss with the Pope (vis child abuse) as well as those TV preachers pushing the “prosperity” snake oil fleecing vulnerable believers every day to the tune of billions. Regularly raking in enough to finance lavish the lifestyles of boldly acquisitive charlatans. And whether one believes Amos Moses or the purveyors of the new Apostolic Reformation, it might be best to let devotees sort it out away from the halls of political governance.

As Ronnie leaves the bartender a generous tip and Rocinante pushes the HSoB tour to Tennessee, a few things can be said of the great state of Louisiana. For one, there are super colorful characters and interesting diverse spiritual traditions. We haven’t even mentioned the Voodoo community, let alone anything in the vein of Islam. After all, some of the most transcendent, gorgeous poetry comes from the Sufi tradition.

And so, as Rocinante rolls into the Louisiana sunset, Ronnie’s final take away is this: Spiritual vibes run deep, wide, and mysterious in Louisiana, just like those swampy bayous down south.

Onward through the fog… RH

On the bayou back roads…
In the fertile Delta…
You’ll find devote folks…
In Louisiana…
So boil them mud bugs…
Strike up a Zydeco…
Meet me, with beads, in New Orleans!

This Land – Mississippi

They say Mississippi is a great place to commune with ghosts, that Mississippians love a good story. And so, in honor of the great state of Mississippi, here’s a real doozy of a ghost story. Mostly inspired by a dream from our first restless night in here. For some reason, Ronnie awoke around 4:00am, probably from a limb scraping against the side of the van nudged by a gentle breeze (or something like that). Anyway, fragments of the dream are drastically embellished below… Enjoy!

The setting is a ghostly confab at a fabled haunted house, the McRaven House, in Vicksburg, Mississippi.

Attendees:
Sam Clemens
William Faulkner
Edger Poe
Margaret Mitchell
Ambrose Bierce
Kate Stone

The McRaven House, a skeletal silhouette against the bruised, twilight sky, pulsed with an unearthly chill. Inside, or rather, through the decaying grandeur of the parlor, a spectral congress convened. Skulking around the fringes of this gathering is the ghost of little Maggie, playing trickster pranks on the adults, generally bringing a sense of dark levity to the air.

We open with a tight shot on Mr. Clemons, a wisp of white mustache and sardonic grin, his cigarillo fuming. He’s leaning against the hearth, its phantom flames licking at the soot-stained bricks. “Well, gentlemen, gentleladies, and… whatever that is,” he gestured vaguely at a giggling, translucent figure flitting near the chandelier, “let’s get down to cases. How are our successors faring? Are any of them capable of spinning a yarn worth a damn?”

Mr. Faulkner, a cloud of tobacco-scented gloom, swirled into view. “Faring? They wallow, Sam. They wallow in the shallow pools of… of instant gratification. They cannot understand the… the weight of history, the… the tangled roots of the South. They write… tweets, truths, threads, blue butterflies. Shit postings! Hardly enough for Walt to call a ‘barbaric yawp,’ and this is supposed to encapsulate the human condition? Absurd.”

Edgar Poe, his eyes dark, hollow pits, floated near a dusty window. “They seek brevity, a fleeting spark of… of sensation. They have lost the exquisite agony of prolonged despair. They write of… of vampires with sparkling skin. My own horrors, once so profound, are now… romantic comedies.” He shuddered, a sound like a rustling death shroud.

Ms. Mitchell, her spectral Scarlett O’Hara flouncing slightly, adjusted a phantom shawl. “Darling, it’s simply dreadful. They’ve taken my beloved South, my tragic heroes, and… and they’ve made them into… into soap operas! They’ve diluted the very essence of suffering into… into sickly sweet drivel.”

Ambrose Bierce, his face a mask of cynical amusement, materialized near a broken mirror. “Irony, my dear Ms. Mitchell, is the universe’s most exquisite mistress. And it seems they have long since hung her in a cheap motel room. With the veritable parade of ironies cavalierly overlooked by average folks these days, one must imagine the poor girl spinning in her grave like a top. These mere mortals believe they have conquered death, disease, and ignorance. Hell, some of them actually believe their clever technologists have them on the verge of immortality! Absurd doesn’t even come close to describing their delusion.”

Ms. Stone, her translucent form radiating a quiet, melancholic strength, drifted near the window. “They have forgotten the true cost of war, the devastation it leaves in its wake. They romanticize conflict, turn it into… entertainment. They have no concept of the hunger, the loss, the sheer… futility. And now, they’re bringing those silly biblical prophecies into the picture… again. They can’t wait to launch a third global conflagration.”

A sudden, chilling giggle echoed through the room. Little Maggie, the spectral trickster, had replaced Faulkner’s pipe tobacco with a wisp of Spanish moss. He sputtered, the moss dissolving into thin air. “They also believe,” Maggie piped up, her voice a ghostly whisper, “that they can photograph ghosts with their… their ‘smartphones’. They take pictures of… of dust and claim it’s us.” She cackled, a sound like wind chimes in a graveyard.

Clemmons chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “Indeed, child. They attempt to capture the intangible, the unseen, with their… their digital trinkets. They have become slaves to the very technology they believe liberates them. They spend their days staring at glowing rectangles, believing they are experiencing… life.”

Poe raised an eyebrow. “They believe the darkness can be banished with… with light. They illuminate every corner, every crevice, yet they remain blind to the true shadows that lurk within their own souls.”

Mitchell sighed dramatically. “And the fashion! Oh, the atrocities they call fashion! They wear… leggings as trousers leaving nearly nothing to the imagination! It’s simply… barbaric.”

Bierce, ever the cynic, added, “They have created a world of… of curated perfection. Every image, every interaction, filtered and polished to remove any trace of… of authenticity. They live in a world of lies, and they call it… social media.”

Maggie, now floating upside down near the ceiling, began to hum a discordant tune. “They think they can solve the world’s problems with… with the pound sign, they call it a ‘hashtag.’ They use it to pass around short photoplays like chain letters spreading like the plague, and say these picture shows can change the course of history.”

Faulkner, still slightly flustered by the moss incident, muttered, “They cannot grasp the… the cyclical nature of time. They repeat the same mistakes, generation after generation, oblivious to the… the echoes of the past.”

Clemons, leaning against a bookshelf, concluded, “In short, they are a collection of self-absorbed, technologically addicted, historically ignorant… fools. And they think we are the phantoms.”

A chorus of ghostly laughter filled the McRaven House, echoing through the empty rooms, a testament to the enduring irony of the mortal plane. Little Maggie, her eyes gleaming with mischievous delight, began to pull the spectral drapes from the windows, plunging the room into an even deeper, more unsettling darkness.

Onward through the fog… RH

In the town of Vicksburg…
In the house McRaven…
You may encounter…
Some ghostly maven…
And like the flow of…
The Mighty Mississip…
Everything that changes…
Stays the same.

This Land – Alabama

Ok, alright. According to some feedback received from early Hot Springs or Busk dispatches, travel blogs are a dime a dozen. People don’t want more words belaboring the obvious or redundant. Instead, some have suggested we try something compelling and original from these observations and meditations. And now, as we emerge from the 2024-25 deep freeze in balmy South Florida, it’s time to reboot HSoB along the southern coast in the heart of Dixie. After that, when Spring really takes off, we’ll travel up the Eastern Seaboard in the search of ghosts, poets, and visionaries.

Now, we sincerely apologize for those snoozy dispatches of Hot Springs or Busk Phases I, II, and III (West and Midwestern states). Once a better modus-operandi is developed, maybe we’ll revisit them. Seriously, WA, OR, and CA literally gave Rohlfie the creeps with NO due justice done to those feelings. Anyway, at least for now, the new angle is STATE NAME: Take a Walk on the Wild Side. We’re gonna string, like pearls, stories from each state, all the while honing and fine-tuning our voice. Boring is not allowed. “Ecstatic truth” is the aim. But as Werner Herzog has already shown, details might come in fuzzy or even somewhat inaccurate. As long as deeper truths are captured, the details can go to the Devil. And so…

Without further adieu, This Land: Alabama

We landed in Foley en-route to Mobile. Our boondocker‘s workflow required landing somewhere close to an urban center large enough for a Planet Fitness without frustrating traffic snarls, but small enough to function at a pace suitable for wayfaring senior citizens. Foley, AL is perfect! Less than 50 miles from Mobile with all necessary accommodations located along a single boulevard. Once settled and underway, we met some nice folks at the library and the nearby dog park.

And the stories… well…

For instance, this one fella, a sort of silver-haired gent told us he’d seen a Sasquatch stomping around Conecuh County. “A hairy beast hollerin’ and crossin’ roads like he’s late for supper,” he said. “Back in my day, we had ‘possums, maybe a bear. Now folks are scared,” he winked. “He’s prob’ly just lookin’ for a decent sweet potato pie.”

I asked him if anyone had a clear photo to be sure it wasn’t just Florida Man paying a visit to some Alabama relatives. “No sah,” he said giving his glasses a wipe-down. “But my neighbors smartass teenager created a deep fake of the one they think they saw.” He handed me a photo from his wallet. “I know there’s probably no real bigfoot, but it gives the boys at the donut shop something to gossip about.” He slipped the photo back into his wallet, took off his hat, and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

“Then there’s them boomin’ noises,” he said. “Like the sky’s got the hiccups.” He tried to describe the scope of his neighbors’ concern. “Mountain Brook to Arab, everyone’s hearin’ it. Folks tweetin’ James Spann like he’s got the answers to the universe.” He paused a moment to take a tennis ball out of his dog’s mouth and throw it several yards. “Even NASA’s scratchin’ their heads. They say they don’t know. Don’t know! Used to be, if you didn’t know somethin’, you’d just say, ‘Must be thunder.’ Now, it’s a mystery for the ages.”

“And speakin’ of mysteries,” he continued. “This lawyer fella got tossed from his own church. On Easter! Over a court order.” He flashed a wide-eyed expression of surprise. “Seems the Lord’s house ain’t a sanctuary from ex-wives or security guards. Banned from all 15 campuses! That’s a powerful ban, ain’t it?” I nodded. “Used to be, church was for repentin’. Now, it’s for keepin’ folks out.” I agreed, “I guess that’s taking restraining order to a new level,” i said.

I took a sip of coffee and decided to stay with this interesting fellow a while longer. He went on entertaining his energetic beagle with the ball, silent for a moment. After a brief tussle with the dog, he threw the ball and cleared his throat. “Then there’s the fella mauled by a trained emotional support dog.” With a furrowed brow he said. “On a plane!” After a brief pause he continued, “now, i knew these animals were becoming more common at airports. But don’t they have certain standards for training before venturing out there in the world with a mission of calming some poor soul’s jangled nerves?” I shrugged. “Used to be,” he said, “a dog was for huntin’ or guardin’. Now, they’re givin’ folks emotional support and bitin’ peoples’ faces off?” “Wa-what?” I asked, finally waking up to the implications. “This emotional support dog mauled another passenger on the plane?” “Yup,” he replied. “And Delta’s got to deal with it. Times have changed, i reckon,” he said with a grimace. “That’s certainly one way to put it.” i said.

“And speaking of wild animals,” he said. “This Cullman woman, stompin’ through a windshield. Did you see that computer video? They tell me these short video clips spread like viruses.” “Yes,” i said. “That lady is a stone cold badass.” He gave me a quizzical look and said, “ok, well, she said she prayed about it, knew it was wrong, and did it anyway.” “You don’t say,” i mused with a chuckle. “That’s… that’s a new level of logic, ain’t it? Used to be, prayin’ was for askin’ for forgiveness after you did somethin’ foolish. Now, it’s a post-action justification.” I laughed so hard i had to wipe a tear from the corner of my eye. “She might have started a trend,” i said.

The beagle was finally tired of chasing the ball and started doing that circle dance that generally comes before plopping down for a doggy break. “Lordy Lord, what a world.” my new companion said. “It’s enough to make a ghost shake his head. Used to be, life was simple. Now, it’s Sasquatch, mysterious booming, church bans, and emotional support attack dogs. I reckon i’ll just keep on keepin’ on and watchin’ the world go round with ol’ Sparky.”

I thanked him for the conversation, we bid fare well, and went our separate ways. He and Sparky to their home. Rohlfie, Ronnie Hays, and i back to good ‘ol Rocinante for some breakfast gruel before heading to the library to get all of this down while it was fresh in the ‘ol memory banks. Next stop, Mississippi!

Onward through the fog… RH

In Conecuh County…
They have a Sasquatch…
Mountain Brook booms…
When sky gods hiccup…
Best be kind in…
Romantic breakups…
Alabama girls will…
Kick your glass!

Audiovision: Sympathy for the Tin Man

How did they put it in the Chocolate Factory? Oh, yea, “Blaming the kid is a lie and a shame. You know exactly who’s to blame!” Anyway, the subject of our story was fairly used to getting his way as a lad. His silver spoon had never known the indignity of a mere polishing cloth. And now, he’s conceived a notion so audacious, so utterly of the moment, that even his boss, a man whose portfolio resembles a rogue’s gallery of ethically dubious ventures, blanched. Our hero, you see, desired to transcend the limitations of mere flesh. He yearned to become a cyborg – a gleaming amalgam of man and machine, jacked directly into the internet’s pulsating cloud, a veritable god amongst mortals.

His father, a man whose fortune stemmed from ethically questionable resource mining, turbo-charged the lad’s personality with the weary resignation of a parent who’d long ago given up on shaping a soul. And so, dropped the youth amongst the lords of flies, forcing our hero to find his way in a world of bullies. Then later, all grown up, after amassing a vast fortune, assembled a team of “bio-enhancement specialists” (read: guys who’d watched too many sci-fi movies), and after a series of excruciatingly painful and undoubtedly illegal procedures, he was…transformed.

Now, if you believe in the multiverse, you know it’s possible our hero awoke not in the world where a climate-controlled sensory deprivation tank eased him back into the waking state of normal existence, but in a place that looks like it was decorated by a deranged picnic enthusiast. Giant lollipops sprouting from the ground, the sky an unsettling shade of cerulean, and the inhabitants… well, not exactly the golf-club socialites to which our hero was accustomed. One fellow, rather short and stout, wore a hat that appeared to be trying to mate with his head.

And in this strange absurd dreamlike world, it slowly dawned on our hero that his transformation hadn’t quite gone as planned. He was, for lack of a better explanation, more machine than man. And then, insult to injury, he discovered, he was without a heart. Apparently, the “bio-enhancement specialists” had skimmed over that particular organ in their rush to install the Wi-Fi card.

Anyway, a road paved with what appeared to be gold bricks stretched before him. “Well,” he thought, with the optimism of a man whose only real problem had ever been deciding between the cocaine or ketamine, “at least there’s a road. And it’s shiny.” So he set off, determined to find his heart, perhaps encountering some ready guides along the way.

Alas, fate, that fickle mistress, had one last jest to play. A gentle rain began to fall. Our hero, whose exterior was apparently more susceptible to the elements than a cheap garden gnome, began to…rust. He froze, mid-stride, a gleaming monument to misplaced ambition and the perils of cut-rate cyborg surgery. His last thought, before the CPU seized entirely, was a profound regret that he hadn’t opted for the platinum plating. At least that wouldn’t have rusted.

To be continued… Rohlfie

This Land – Florida: Part III (cruisin’ the keys)

So… here we are… watchin’ the Northern weather forecasts, thanking our lucky stars for a sustainable groove here in the Southern tip of Florida. Now, Ronnie absolutely hates urban traffic snarls, especially in new territory. We’re close, but not really in the vortex of Miami. Traffic’s still a tangle in rush hours, but Ronnie says he’s getting used to it. We found a fantastic library and reasonable provision outlets. Life may not be Island time, yet, but we’re only 3 hours from Key West. All things considered, conditions couldn’t be much better as weather has been a balmy 55 to 78. The best part…? No skeeters… 😉

So… The Keys? Ya… we took that drive last weekend… here’s the report:

THE GOOD: Imagine a place where the Margaritaville state of mind isn’t just a Jimmy Buffett song, but a freakin’ way of life. Welcome to the Florida Keys, loopers, where Tevas are formal wear and the most pressing decision is whether to have your Key lime pie on a stick or in a graham cracker crust. (Pro tip: get both, you hedonist). And the water? So turquoise and clear it looks like a cement pond built for Jed Clampett himself. Fish practically jump into boats, begging to be fried up with a side of hush puppies. And the sunsets? Forget about it. Like Poseidon took a paintbrush dipped in mango and fire and just went wild across the sky.

THE BAD: Of course, paradise has its price, and in the Keys, it ain’t cheap. Be prepared to shell out some serious clams for a condo that’s smaller than your first apartment. And speaking of shelling out, if you get seriously ill, well, let’s just say the medical facilities here are about as advanced as a World War II field hospital. Oh, and did we mention the hurricanes? Mother Nature throws a tantrum every now and then, and when she does, those pastel-colored houses go flying like confetti in a wind tunnel.

THE UGLY: Remember that turquoise water? Yeah, well, sometimes it’s teeming with more tourists than fish. Think Spring Break on steroids, but with more retirees in Hawaiian shirts. SIDE NOTE: We paid retail therapy visits to Wal Marché, Targé, and the nearest indoor shopping mall. NONE of the locals wear Hawaiian shirts. And good luck finding one on the retail racks. Result? Wherever we go, Ronnie looks like a freaking tourist. Which… he totally is…. LOL. Anyway… mosquitos in the summer? We’re told these aren’t your average backyard biters, oh no. These are kamikaze skeeters, dive-bombing your ankles with the fury of a thousand tiny vampires. Bring industrial-strength repellent just in case, or you’ll be itching like a fiend in a flea circus.

WHO’s WHO in the KEYS?
Papa Hemingway: Yeah, the big kahuna himself. He lived and wrote here, probably with a daiquiri permanently glued to his hand. His house is now a museum where you can practically smell the testosterone and typewriter ribbon. By the way cat lovers, the Hemmingway House is home to nearly sixty of those furry buggers. Many of them have an extra toe.

Tennessee Williams: The playwright who brought us “A Streetcar Named Desire” also found inspiration in these steamy islands. Maybe he was drawn to the drama, or maybe he just liked the cheap margaritas.
Jimmy Buffett: The patron saint of flip-flops and frozen concoctions. He didn’t exactly hail from the Keys, but he sure made a career out of singing about them.

WHAT to SEE CRUSIN’ the KEYS?
Dry Tortugas National Park: Seventy miles west of Key West, this place is like stepping back in time. Think pristine beaches, crystal-clear waters, and a Civil War-era fort. Just watch out for the ghost of Dr. Mudd.
Bahia Honda State Park: This is where you go to find that classic postcard-perfect beach. White sand, swaying palms, water so clear you can see your toes even when you’re up to your neck in it. It’s enough to make you ditch your shoes and never wear them again.

BELIEVE IT or NOT:
Island rebellion? Key locals once broke away from the US like those Texans threaten to do whenever there’s a Democrat in the White House. They call their movement, “The Conch Republic” That’s right, the Keys once seceded from the Union. Well, sort of. It was a protest, but they still have their own flag, their own currency (the Conch Dollar), and their own wacky sense of humor.

Fantasy Fest: Imagine Mardi Gras, but with more body paint and fewer inhibitions. This annual festival is a celebration of all things weird and wonderful, and it’s definitely not for the faint of heart.
Underwater Music Festival: Where else can you listen to Bach while surrounded by coral reefs and tropical fish? This quirky event is a must-see for any music lover with a sense of adventure.

So there you have it, loopers. The Florida Keys, a glorious, messy, hilarious, and utterly unique slice of paradise. Just remember to pack your sunscreen, your sense of humor, and a whole lot of cash. And if you see a guy in a Hawaiian shirt riding a bicycle with a margarita in his hand, that’s probably just Wimpy channeling his inner Jimmy Buffett. Offer him a cheeseburger on Monday. He’ll gladly pay you Thursday.

Onward through the fog… RH

From Saint Auggy……
To Tallahassee…
You’ll see the fire ants..
Prolificacy…
And like the bears in…
Yellowstone grassy…
Don’t look FL Man in the eye.

This Land: Florida (part II)

Ok… confession time...

Ronnie thought, since we were pressed for time, we could get by with only one Florida post. So we took a shortcut, leaning on Ronnie’s memories of Florida. A bit dusty, those memories, like faded postcards from a bygone era. Back when Daytona Beach was the epicenter of spring break bacchanalia, before the revelers migrated to Panama City, seeking new shores for their timeless rituals.

But then, waking from an overnight stay in Tallahassee enroute to Mobile, AL, Ronnie opened his news feed to reports of Ol’ Man Winter reaching tentacles into his Midwest stomping grounds. This awakened a realization. Specifically, the point of this tour was to avoid any and all extreme weather, a comfort priority for van-life vagabonds.

Ah, but there’s the rub. In this digital age, consistency is king. To vanish for weeks is to be forgotten, swallowed by the insatiable maw of the internet. So, we stay. Florida, it seems, is too vast to be consumed in a single bite. There’s plenty to see, do, and write about as Ronnie has no plans for leaving till it warms up a bit up North.

Now, for geography-minded loopers, Tallahassee is in the panhandle, East of St. Augustine, our first Florida stop. Well, that’s in the North, and we needed to be heading South, waaayyy south, in order to avoid all hints of Ol’ Man Winter. So… yea… we had to backtrack a bit, but now heading in the right direction. Spring Hill was the first stop enroute to Key West, all the while hoping for the best for our friends and family up North.

Anyway, it turns out, Ronnie’s plan to visit all 48 contiguous US states in a rolling studio apartment christened “Rocinante” has been done (and published to some acclaim), more than once. The Steinbeck version literally featured a tricked out pickup truck named… Rocinante. Now, more confessions. Ronnie was not aware of Steinbeck’s “Travels with Charlie” before 2024. And Heat-Moon’s “Blue Highways” was only a back-of-the-mind inspiration for Ronnie’s 5th music album of the same name. Truth told, he had not read Heat-Moon’s volume till hitting the road on our Hot Springs or Busk tour.

Actually, the inspiration for naming our van Rocinante came from the Netflix series, “The Expanse“. A multi-season series that delves into a rich tapestry of philosophical themes. Just a few examples would include social inequality, with vast disparities between the “Inner Planets” (Earth and Mars), the “Kuiper Belt,” and the outer colonies. Inequality that fuels conflict and raises questions about resource distribution, social justice, and the exploitation of marginalized groups. Sound familiar? Another theme explored by the series is the nature of humanity. The Expanse explores what it fundamentally means to be human. It questions whether our nature is inherently good or evil, and how we might evolve or adapt in the face of the unknown.

These are just a couple of the many themes explored by the series. Ronnie has seen the whole thing twice, he’ll probably watch it again cursing the numbskulls who canceled it. This is not to downplay the influences of Heat-Moon or Steinbeck’s road trip meditations. Both are masterful explorations of the hopes, dreams, and unique character of the people encountered off the “beaten paths” as it were. Heat-Moon called those back roads “Blue Highways” because of how they appeared in road atlas’ of the day. In Travels with Charlie, Nobel laureate, John Steinbeck makes a point of staying off the busiest highways in order to get the raw scoop from the people inhabiting the countryside. Both works chocked full of detailed dialog sequences from those encounters in diners and rest stops.

Ronnie, in contrast, is coming from a different angle. More an inner exploration, sharing windshield time with audio versions of Steinbeck, Camus, Dostoevsky, and Dickens’ takes on these universal themes with showers, meals, and sleep cycles provided by Cracker Barrel, and Planet Fitness.

And what does any of this have to do with Florida…? For those attuned to current events, these human challenges are alive and well here, as they are nation wide, but with Florida, the examples are much louder and prouder (think “Florida Man“). For example, Florida faces significant environmental threats, including rising sea levels, increasingly severe hurricanes, and the degradation of crucial ecosystems. These issues are exacerbated by rapid development and a history of prioritizing short-term economic gains over long-term sustainability. Environmental issues often become politicized, with disagreements over the role of government regulation and the balance between economic development and environmental protection.

As for Tribalism and Prejudice, Florida, like many places, grapples with historical and ongoing issues of racism, discrimination, and social inequality. These issues often manifest in disparities in education, healthcare, and economic opportunity. Sad but true, minority communities often face systemic barriers, and tensions with law enforcement. They also face incidents of racial profiling and police brutality which contribute to mistrust. Political rhetoric and divisive language and policies can aggravate existing divisions… and these days, politicians are saying the quiet parts out loud and proud.

And Florida’s leadership has a mixed record on these issues. While some initiatives promote environmental protection and social justice, others have been criticized for intensifying existing problems.

Yea… challenges… but until Greenland melts, Florida has some of the most bodacious beaches in the world. Come see it while you can. We’ll be here at least till Ol’ Man Winter retreats back to where he belongs.

Onward through the fog… RH

From Saint Auggy……
To Tallahassee…
You’ll see the fire ants..
Prolificacy…
And like the bears in…
Yellowstone grassy…
Don’t look FL Man in the eye.

Loopcircus

Loopcircus

Ronnie Hays

This Land: North Carolina

This Land: South Carolina

This Land: Kentucky

This Land: Tennessee

This Land – Louisiana

This Land – Alabama

Audiovision: Sympathy for the Tin Man

This Land – Florida: Part III (cruisin’ the keys)