Hey Y'all!

Inspired by the Bob Wills' tune That's What I Like About the South, here you will read my ramblings on the South and all things Southern. As the song goes, "Cornbread and turnip greens... Ham hocks and butter beans... Mardi Gras down in New Orleans- That's what I like about the South!!!" That and a whole lot more. I hope y'all enjoy!





Thursday, January 28, 2010

My Lesson is Your Blessin'

New Orleans- a little bit French, a tad bit Spanish, a whole lot Catholic, and entirely Southern- is a one of a kind. Even if its city motto wasn’t “Laissez Les Bon Temps Roulez” (Let the Good Times Roll), I would still love it.

Things move at a slower pace down there and, for that reason, I decided the Big Easy would be the perfect place for me to take it easy for a few days.

My first day in the city could not have been any better. The French Quarter was alive, pulsating with bright neon lights and beckoning all to come hither. Entering Bourbon Street, I was immediately surrounded by music which seeped from the bars, burlesques, brass instruments, and street performers’ boom boxes. Interwoven, the various sounds became as one singsong melody that can only be described as New Orleans.

With this New Orleans sound still dancing around my head, I moseyed along further down Bourbon Street. I could see Saints fans crying in their beers and hurricanes while the faithful followers of the victorious Tampa Bay Buccaneers smiled and gloated between drinks. Others, who were oblivious to the fact there was even a football game that day, continued about their merrymaking in the pick your poison setting of the French Quarter.

It was more than I could handle. After devouring a serving of beignets, I caught the first street car I could find and made my way back to the quiet of my Garden District bed and breakfast.

I awoke early that next morning and dug through my suitcase for something to wear. Much thought went into the packing process for this trip. I wanted to remain inconspicuous and look nothing like a tourist, so naturally I packed all orange Tennessee shirts and companioning caps. I even packed my pride and joy- my burnt orange cowboy boots. The moment those orange boots hit the sidewalk, I knew it was going to be a great day.

Boy, was I wrong.

If red is the color that invokes fury from raging bulls, then orange must be the color that invokes grabbling from New Orleans panhandlers. I was hit from all directions. It was like a great neon sign was placed on my back saying, “I’m not from around here. Please, ask me for money!” Seeking refuge, I dashed into Cafe Du Monde and found comfort from a serving of beignets. (No matter the circumstances, beignets are always a great decision.)

I emerged from the cafe full of vigor and determined to have a good day despite the pre-beignet fiasco. I walked along the riverfront while sunlight danced merrily on the water. Children were laughing and all was right with the world. And then it happened.

I heard, “Hey, Tennessee!”

I turned to look behind me, hoping that by chance someone named Tennessee was standing there. Tennessee wasn‘t there. It was then that I knew I was the target.
I thought I would simply nod and walk on by, but he said something about my boots. I stopped and heard myself ask, “What did you say?”

“Those are some mighty fine boots you got there,” said the panhandler. “I bet I can tell ya exactly where you got ‘em too!”

I was intrigued. I decided to play along.

“One thing,” he said. “If I tell you right, you have to let me give you a shoeshine.”

I agreed. He smiled.

“You got your boots on your feet! That’s where you got ‘em!”

My blood boiled as he laughed. I started to walk off, but before I could, he commenced to squirt my boots- my pride and joy- with some unidentified liquid. He pulled out a rag and halfheartedly rubbed the liquid in. As he worked, he said to me, “Let my lesson be your blessin’!” After twenty seconds, he was done.

The shoeshine panhandler stood up, studied his job, and looked at me. “That’ll be twenty bucks,” he said.

I handed him two dollars.

“No, no, no! It’s ten on each side,” he cried.

“No. It’s two dollars,” I reiterated by handing him the two bills again. I knew that if I was going to dig in my pocket a second time, it would be for my hawkbill knife and not a twenty. He must have saw this in my eyes and he resigned himself to the two dollars. I decided to go find another shirt.

Later that evening, I met up with some locals and we began discussing the panhandling problem. One kind of laughed and said, “People are always getting suckered in by those shoe shiners down by the riverfront.”

“I’d never get fooled like that,” I lied as I stood to leave.

My lesson is now your blessin’. Don’t get fooled like I did.

Tuesday, January 5, 2010

Redneck or smart?

Southerners are the most ingenious of peoples. Most of this ingeniousness, however, is misinterpreted, causing the Southern masterminds to be labeled “rednecks.”

I, for one, disdain the redneck label. Why should we Southerners be made fun of for being irrepressibly brilliant? Yes. I said brilliant. After all, coming up with a thousand and one uses for duct tape, also known as Alabama chrome, requires a certain degree of brilliance.

That same brilliance is employed everyday by Southerners of all walks of life. Necessity is the mother of invention and no matter what your career path, level of education, or station in life may be, there will come a time when you need a certain tool. If you have this tool, you will use it. If you do not have it, you will improvise with an invention of your own. Whether these inventions being employed make us rednecks or not, that is for the Yankees and Jeff Foxworthy to decide.

Christmas is a great time for improvisations. Running out of wrapping paper is no big deal when you have last Sunday’s paper laying around. The cartoon section makes great wrapping paper for the kids and after they are done ripping the gifts open you can pick it up, read it, and get a laugh.

Now, running out of tape poses more of a problem. However, no hurdle is too high with Southern ingenuity! My eight-year old cousin gave me a gift she wrapped using glue to hold down the edges after she ran out of tape. (What a marvelous child she is!)

Even I used a bit of improvisation during the Holiday Season. Christmas turns me into a big kid all over again. With this big kid energy, I wanted to put lights on the house.

Getting the ladder out, attaching clips to the gutters, and then placing the strands of lights in them is very much a chore. Bravo to anyone who can hang icicle lights with simplicity. The moment they were up I was dreading the day when they would have to come down.

The day finally came, though, and just in time for the Great State of Tennessee to be besieged by artic weather. Not wanting to lug the ladder around just so I could climb up and down, move it over a foot, and do it all over again, I stepped back and weighed my options. All I really needed was a long stick that I could use to knock the clips off the gutters and no ladder would be required and, more importantly, I would be out of the cold a lot sooner.

That’s when I remembered my retractable frog gig. Extended to full length, the gig is a good 10-feet. Add that to my height and I had one optimal Christmas light remover. Honestly, it worked a lot better than I thought it would. The lights that took over an hour to put up were down in around five minutes.

Of course, I was pleased with the results of my first endeavor of 2010. Not only did I accomplish my goal of taking down the lights, I did so in record time. All the while I was honing my giggin’ skills that will surely be employed this Summer. I just hope I will be able to face all situations of the coming year with the same homespun logic for which we Southerners are famous. And who knows, I may be able employ the gig again.

Pay attention, Mr. Foxworthy. You can include this in your next show:

Some may say if you own a frog gig, you might be a redneck. Others may say if you use your frog gig to take down your Christmas lights, you might be a redneck. I say, if you are stuck in the cold for hours, climbing a ladder to remove your Christmas lights, you might ought to be a redneck, or, at least, learn how to think like a Southerner.

Happy New Year!

Monday, January 4, 2010

Tellin' Lies

Greetings Friends!

I am Colonel Adam Southern from Culleoka, Tennessee. After donning the colonel’s “uniform” for several years, I was recognized by Tennessee’s governor Phil Bredesen and given the honorary title of colonel. I am a librarian by trade and a storyteller whenever I get a chance. I give ghost tours of Downtown Columbia, Tennessee and also perform at local storytelling events. Click on the link below to watch me in action at the 2009 Mule Day “Liar’s Contest.”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=csKRJqojUmc