The Hopeful Romantic

Uncle Bubba sits quietly in the back seat of his cab; the cabbie was 20 minutes late and Uncle Bubba let him have it with both barrels when he finally arrived at the hotel. He called the day before to make the arrangements and now he wonders if he'll make it to O'Hare airport on time to catch his flight home. (I can tell you that he won't, but that's another story...) For now he thinks of his Sweet Pea and anxiously awaits grabbing her in his arms at the gate when he arrives at his home airport. He imagines her sweet smile and adoring eyes. He laments that he has to stay away from home for such long stretches of time and knows that it would probably be easier on him if he wasn't such a hopeless romantic. He knows he lives too much in his head and carries his heart on his sleeve, but that's just Bubbie. He knows it's to his detriment. It's a hard life but could he be any other way? To deny one's self is death; fated to be a zombie, a shell of a person walking the days away to the end of the earth.

In Bubbie's view, the term hopeless romantic is a misnomer. The term "hopeful romantic" would be much more accurate to describe a person who daydreams about romantic occasions and dreams of chances where he/she will be able to perform a romantic act to their love. The sadness that this chance never comes is the hopelessness and who wants to think about that?! All hopeless romantics are idealists, sentimental dreamers, imaginative, and fanciful when you get to know them. They often live seeing life through rose colored glasses and as a result they prefer not to be steeped in reality. The hopeful romantic knows the reality of love is that reality has no business being in love. This is why they will often perform grandiose gestures that may be seen as unsettling or borderline crazy to non-romantics. But to the fellow few romantics these same gestures will be adored as beautifully and obscenely quixotic. And such is the "hope" of the hopeless romantic--to not only find the one who loves receiving such love, but loves giving such love. The true hopeless romantic would always rather give than receive because they know then and only then, will there be true love.

Going Home

The chilly winds of Canada are sawing hard on the back of Bubbie's neck. Even with a scarf pulled up around his nape and head his skin under his layered shirts shuttered and began to horripilate; shaking off the goose flesh he knew it was time to go home. Chicago has been good to him and he knew better than to complain of the cold. He no more liked it when northern folks come to visit and complain about the heat. Home is home to folks and Uncle Bubba supposes that one ain't no better than the other, it's just what you're used to. For him it's the South. Excited to see his Sweet Pea and get his arms wrapped tight around her. For years he could hardly go a few hours without her, but in the crazy year of ups and downs he's had to bear up to loneliness. A man, broken down from the miles from home yet strong enough to overpower the selfishness to pack it in, to quit. There's Sweet Pea, a family, friends and charities that rely on him to make money, and right know, that's the bottom line. Sometimes when he weakens and his heart goes faint, his mind wanders back to the days of no regrets. He and Sweet Pea had little and needed little. An hour of gazing into her eyes flew by in seconds and he'd swim through hell or high water to rush back to her from wherever afar. But they wanted more, nice things, and they wanted their kids to have nice things too. So they slaved to make their dreams realities, at least as real and as close to their dreams as they could get. Their reliance on each other developed integrity and ethics and loyalty. They learn discipline and what worked and what didn't. And now in a crappy economy, with jobs scarce and the future of America uncertain, Uncle Bubba and Sweet Pea keep chugging along. They weather the storms together which only strengthens their bond. They stay focused and committed to one another, having the intelligence to know that the residual of their love and their joint success will fall on those around them; no need to look for it.

Now it's just a cab ride to the airport and Bubbie will be going home. In Bubbie's view, everything is no more than nuisance to him; the cold, the traffic, the people, the hectic tension of the airport; all this keeping him from his Sweet Pea.

Daaaaa Brauts!!!

Uncle Bubba has made his way to a most obscure place for a good ol' southern boy in winter; he's in the greater Chicagoland area. In the approaching inclement cold he finds himself even further from home, as misplaced as a back pocket on a t-shirt. But, he has a job in a bad economy and has learned, in his gruff and sometimes grumbling way to appreciate the subtleties of his often forced adventures; this time in northern Illinois. For the most part, outside of the ghettos, the area has a different vibe--it's almost mundane. There's a myriad of sprawling suburbs each having the air of a small town and seemingly detached inkling of the rest of the world. Bubbie noticed some intriguing examples of this, one of which he relayed to me...

It's unfathomable that hordes of husky heartlanders will stand on line, out the door--a revolving door--in cold windy weather to have a doggone hotdog! Dat's right; and in their own unique vernacular, when made with sausage it's a sassage sammich. They love their Italian Beef sammich, a local delicacy consisting of piles of spicy sliced meat in a perilously soggy bun and let's not forget Daaa Brauts! If you haven't figured it out by now, the Chicago area is, incidentally, a culinary cornucopia. As a matter of fact, in a hotel lobby he picked up a Chicago tourist guide of the best and hottest places displayed 35 of 40 pages hawking restaurants. Bubbie swears that when he lays in his hotel bed at night and the howl of the wind dies down he can hear the distant hardening of arteries.

Bubbie has forever heard of Chicago as the windy city. Often upon hearing it he admits to thinking sarcastically, "Yea right; you're in the North, its cold, what do you expect." But now that he has spent a few wintery weeks living like a native, he admits that the relentless wind has a significant stinging bite, no matter how light or how heavy. At times it hurts, it makes a colder, tougher go of things. But you don't hear the locals speak of it, they don't complain about the cold.

The landscape is relatively flat. He reckons that short of the plethora of near empty glass and steel office buildings there's nothing to stop the cold Canadian air from sweeping down yonder. Who knows, but in Bubbie's view the wind in the windy city is as viscious as a Sarah Palin with a hot-flash.

Chicago-round

Chicago is a landscape littered with revolving doors. This is an unnatural way to enter and exit a room for a simple country boy. Cited first as another big city obnoxious annoyance Bubbie's view a been altered... if just a little. He surmises that the functional purpose of the revolver is to keep the weather out. There seems to be no time in Chicago that a chilly wind isn't whistling pasted one's ears and with a revolving door, the door is never really left open. No absentminded employee can leave a door propped open and no chivalrous patron can politely hold the door open for long periods of time and long lines of shoppers. The side affects of revolving doors are the practice of patience since one must wait for each person to walk through, and politeness since, while waiting a turn to revolve, momentary decisions of etiquette are performed as to who goes first. With that comes the thought that, "Hey, I can't stop now that I've revolved or someone is going to rear-end me!" When exiting a revolving door you might hit the person in front of you if the line stops and the person behind you may suddenly be pressed against you for a second of awkward stranger relations. Your mind may be thinking, "Whoa, someone is touching me." But then, after several instances Bubbie tends to think... so what. We're all just people trying to get by. In Bubbie's view, he'll keep going around until he can get back home where a revolver is something that sleeps under your pillow.

Charlie Daniels, Talk Is Cheap

Uncle Bubba was takin' a trip out to L.A. (Lower Alabama), toolin' along in a Chevrolet, tokin' on a number and diggin' on the radio. Just as he crossed the Mississippi line he heard that highway start to whine, and he knew that left rear tire was about to go. Just about this time Charlie Daniels started a-pickin’ and a-singin’ on the radio.

“People say I'm no-good,
And crazy as a loon.
I get stoned in the morning,
I get drunk in the afternoon.
Kinda like my old blue tick hound,
I like to lay around in the shade,
An', I ain't got no money,
But I damn sure got it made.

'Cos I ain't askin' nobody for nothin',
If I can't get it on my own.
If you don't like the way I'm livin',
You just leave this long-haired country boy alone.”

“Ha!” Uncle Bubba laughed right out loud to himself. “Yeah buddy… that mighta been true back in the 70’s when that song came out; well what a different world we live in today!”
He’s been out here amongst these long haired country boys and buzz cut rednecks for that matter and they’re all livin’ on the government. In Bubbie’s view, they’re beggin’, barrowin’, and stealin’. They’re all bitchin’ about Obama but they’re all takin’ the money.

Bubbie's World View

Uncle Bubba sat scribbling on a wrinkled paper, his mind adrift as he gazed out the window.
"Whatcha writin'," I queried.
"I was wondering if there is any place left in the world that people haven't seen," he said thoughtfully.
It seemed rhetorical with the quiet tone of his voice, but then he continued.
"So I was sitting here killing time and started to jot a few things down. I did a little research on figures and do you realize that a persons linear field of view taking in the circumference of the earth can see about 3 miles? Their angular field of view for binocular vision is about 120 degrees. So it would take three people standing back to back to see 360 degrees. The area of that circular field of vision is 28.37 square miles. The earth’s surface area is 57,500,000 square miles so using this formula: 57,500,000/28.37 = 2,026,788.86 X 3 = 6,080,366.58, we see that it would take about 6,080,367 people to see the entire area of the earth."

Todays current world population is 6,875,936,198, so if we divide that by 6,080,367 we'll find that we could see it 1,131 times over. Doesn't the world sometimes feel like a small place? So why are we fighting?

Kentucky Ladies

Uncle Bubba has spent the the entire summer in eastern Kentucky working in the hills and hollers. Arriving in late Spring he has witnessed a turn of seasons and a turn of circumstances. It's late October and he is putting the wraps on another job well done. He has several more weeks before returning home to his Sweet Pea but now he sits in the breakfast area in the lobby of a fine Lexington hotel. Sitting alone he slurps a sip of his hot black coffee and attempts to keep his early morning mind clear for soon enough it will again be hard at work. Try as he might, he can't help but to overhear one of two women who were sitting close by. As his gaze falls upon them he notices that their mere appearances represent the two distinctive flavors of Kentucky women. The woman sitting at the left was angular with her tresses of charcoal gray hair coiffed in a late 1940s or '50s style, bowed up high and rolled back from her high cheekbones, straight slender nose and chiseled chin. She was natural and sweet and sat straight upright while casually nibbling at a muffin while her more pretentious friend on the right sat expounding about the images appearing on her iPad. Her chatty friend was a petite older woman with short blonde, very blonde hair. She had dabbed on a little makeup and, though casual, donned designer clothes. She chatted incessantly about Facebook, Glen Beck, that O'Reilley fella, and Nancy Pelosi. Her rapid fire repartee triggered a thought in Bubbie's sleepy mind. In the past few years he has spent a fair amount of time in hotel lobbies, diners, restaurants, and bars and has noticed a split in the topics of talk depending on similar characteristics.

There are a lot of folks in this still great country that live in much the same way as our rugged ancestors. They work hard everyday and come home to care for their family and home. They survive, doing what they must do and in doing so they try to find some modicum of joy. If you strike up a conversation they speak of the weather, not just in passing but because they have to deal with it; it effects their work, their crops, their weekend plans, or how much money they'll spend fighting it. They share stories of their families and kids. They'll tell you about their day or how great a man their granddaddy was; they may even interject comments about the Lord. They almost never talk about Facebook, Beck, O'Reilly, or Pelosi; that seems to be the loquacious mantra of the upper middle class. But then again one would have to have something to lose to vehemently worry. For as much as technology and TV are useful tools, they are also used even more by the average American as entertainment. Oddly, we've forgotten that. We've stopped thinking for ourselves and swallow everything hook line and sinker. In Bubbie's view, the good old USA was stronger when folks were natural, polite, used common sense and thought for themselves.

Extraordinary Courtesy - Life or Death on the Road

Uncle Bubba has had the occasions to drive many, many miles over the past few summer months; from the deep south of lower Alabama up and down Highway 65 to Chicago, and Highway 75 from Florida to Kentucky and back several times. Aside from the beauty of the American landscape, the one thing that most stands out to Bubbie is the total lack of courtesy. He remembers a time when there was a phrase of "common courtesy" but what was once common is now extraordinary--and not in a good way. The risky and dangerous driving maneuvers that people make at any instant are stunning in so many ways. First and foremost is the fact that they are willing to wreck their vehicle, other's vehicles, physically maim or kill men, women, and children to get one place ahead in a line of traffic; such an inconsequential achievement with such potentially tragic results. No one, and that means no one, will slow to allow another driver in line. Everyone's first reaction is to stand on the gas and speed up to pass. If you are overtaken by the urge to be courteous, and for that matter safe, and you yield to another you'll inevitably be punished for mile after mile by the person behind you tailgating until they can pass you coming as close to hitting you as possible just to make sure you get the message.

Add the fact that people do not want to slow down in a construction zone, or pull over while passing a stopped vehicle on the shoulder, cut each other off at the gas pump, honking their horn moments after a light turns green and racing for a parking place, and you'll see just how rude and self-centered we truly are. In Bubbie's view, we are who we are before we get in a car.

Redneck Nachos

Uncle Bubba walks into the kitchen of his friend Wild Bill in eastern Kentucky and eases himself slowly into one of the wooden chairs at the kitchen table. It's been a long hot summer day of hard work and the two men are starting to think about scarring up some grub. Ain't nothin' worse than being wore out from work and then having to come up with some appetizing dinner.
"You hungry?" Wild Bill asks Bubbie.
"A bit."
"Yeah, me too," says Bill, "but I ain't starvin'... too hot. I wish we had somethin' easy to whip up that goes good with a cold beer."
"Yeah, like some redneck nachos."
Bill's head spins around and his beady eyes focus on Uncle Bubba over his glasses. "Say what?"

Uncle Bubba was working down in beautiful Dauphin Island, Alabama (yeah, that place that the BP oil spill is ruining) and ate a barbecue lunch at a little roadside stand. That was the first time he ate redneck nachos. Now get a pen and paper and write down this recipe; dump some Frito Scoopables on a plate, toss on some pork, baked beans, sprinkled with a mess of cole slaw. In Bubbie's view, it don't get no better than that.

Wild Bill laughs and says, "OK, let's do it! But I'm not so sure that you didn't just make that up."
Uncle Bubba, always the stalwart of honesty and one to give credit where credit is due pulls out his cell phone and laughingly shows Wild Bill the proof:

God Bless Our Troops, Shame On US

Uncle Bubba has been in Kentucky to work with issues associated with the recent flooding. During his work day he deals with members of the National Guard. It is striking to see the youthfulness of the men and women laden with such responsibility. Many, if not most of the troops that Uncle Bubba encountered had been to the Middle East or were new and eventually headed to serve there. Another striking thing that Uncle Bubba witnessed in the backwoods and hollers of Kentucky are the rattle trap, pieces-of-junk humvees that our service people showed up in. Obviously, we expect so much from our military personnel, yet invest nothing in their equipment. In Bubbie's view, we should be ashamed of ourselves.

Alabama Secret Gentlemen's Club

Uncle Bubba was toolin' down Highway 231 in L.A. or should I say... Lower Alabama, when an innocuous looking sign caught the corner of his eye. "What?", he yelled out laughing. He pulled the steering wheel to the left and U-turned in the median; he had to go back and see if he saw it correctly. Sure enough, he did...

SECRETS GENTLEMANS CLUB - BYOB
What in tarnation could be goin' down in the kinda gentlemen's club that ya havta bring your own beer?! Never mind, I don't wanna know.

Good Fences

When young Bubbie was still wet behind the ears he used to grab his daddy's old boat cushion and wade through the tall grass spooking the grasshoppers and dodging the honey bees, venturing out to the ol' charcoal gray split rail fence. With his arm through one of the straps of the cushion, he'd grab each of the weathered, rough and grainy rails and pull himself up. They felt hard as iron, like petrified wood as he climbed high, destined for the top rail. He had his favorite, one with a flat spot near the cross posts where he could precariously balance the boat cushion while he straddled the rail with his little legs and poked his small feet into the straps. Now, mounted on the saddle of his mighty stead, his hands holding the reigns, a short piece of rope tied to the cross posts, he could ride any range. Maybe today he'd punch the doagies grazing aimlessly on the other side of the fence, paying him no mind. Or he might have to save the day of course, chasing away the bad guys.

Now Uncle Bubba is a grown man, mature, life worn, road weary. But as he drives the back country roads of America he passes many old wooden split rail fences and they can at any moment make him smile. Uncle Bubba recalls that even as a young pup he admired the creators of fences; though he never recalls ever seeing anyone build one, they just seem to have always been there, as natural as trees. Yet the work and effort it must have taken to lay them straight and set the posts and rails had to be one of thankless dedication. As straight and true as it's creator could construct, these wooden jigsaw puzzles served a function, built sturdy enough to deter the livestock yet, maybe unexpectedly, esthetically pleasing to one's neighbor. Uncle Bubba has had some experience over the years of building and mending fences. Not the magnificent creations of old but of steel and wire; and in his mind, short cuts as so much of life today is about. Even so it's hard tedious work. But in Bubbie's view, when finished there is a sense of pride and accomplishment that one knows will go virtually unnoticed on the landscape. And he smiles.

FAME!

Yesterday Sweet Pea and Uncle Bubba drove up Hwy 65 through Birmingham to head to northern Alabama. They were escaping Montgomery for a few days to visit Huntsville in the northeast corner of the state. Just north of Birmingham Uncle Bubba decided to crank the wheel hard to the left and detour to the northwest corner of the state to visit Muscle Shoals; in particular Fame Recording Studios. They have been an integral part of American popular music from the late 1950s to the present. Artists who recorded there included Wilson Pickett, Aretha Franklin, Otis Redding, Tom Jones, Duane Allman, The Allman Brothers Band, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Bobbie Gentry, Mac Davis, Paul Anka, Etta James, Andy Williams, The Osmonds, Waylon Jennings, Travis Tritt and many others.

Muscle Shoals is a small town just south of the larger city of Florence. They were surprised when they happened to spy the studio at how inconspicuous it was, swallowed up in a busy intersection of CVS, Walgreens, gas stations and every imaginable fast food restaurant. Oh those awful chain stores, a cancer on the American landscape. Anyway, they pull the old Ford into CVS parking lot to access the small studio parking lot. Uncle Bubba excitedly jumped out with my camera and started taking pictures! He couldn't believe he was actually standing in a place that he had heard of all of his life, since he was a pup. This remote place that seemed like a lifetime away from where he grew up. A place that he tried to imagine but could never appreciate because he didn't know where it was, what the landscape and the environment was, what the air smelled like. On this beautifully sunny day, after taking the obligatory pictures outside, Bubbie walked up to the front door to see if they'd let him in and guess what; he and Sweet Pea sashayed right in to the very small reception area fortified by two glassed, cluttered but empty offices on either side and an ancient sectional couch and coffee table. No one was there to greet them but they could hear people in the building so they waited and looked at the many pictures of famous people and gold records that lined the paneled walls. A man came hurriedly down some stairs and, seemingly preoccupied asked if he could help the enamored gawkers. Bubbie asked if he could look around and take some pictures. He said, "Sure, feel free." and walked out the door. Then a receptionist named Suzanne showed up and took them right into the studios! Uncle Bubba couldn't believe it! There are 2 studios, A and B. A is much nicer than B.

Studio A

But with the decor, the smells of wood and carpet and whatever, the sound (that muffled sound-proof air), you'd swear that you stepped into a time capsule and it was 1970! There they were; where all of the magic had happened; where the mystical sounds that came out of our radio speakers for all these years had originated. There were instruments set up; pianos, organs, drums, amplifiers and microphones. Each room had high ceilings and a large semi mirrored window that hid the control rooms. It was incredible. Bubbie and Sweet Pea stayed for a good while and just soaked it all in... he wished he could have stayed for days, even weeks, but he didn't want to overstay their welcome. As they left and drove over the Tennessee River and across the rolling countryside to Huntsville, Bubbie's head was buzzing with dizzy pleasure. He still can't believe that he did it; it feels so great. And thank God that he had Sweet Pea by his side to share it all with. In Bubbie's view, many great adventures are always on the horizon but he thinks that this day will stay with him for a long, long time.

Final Four... Say What?!

Uncle Bubba was watching the Final Four of men's college basketball last night. You know, the March Madness tournament, oh yeah, it's now April but that's another story. So while Duke is playing West Virginia in the later game and the CBS commentators are interviewing Brad Stevens, the winning coach and player Gordon Hayward from Butler University. If you haven't seen coach Stevens, he's a white, youthful looking 33 years old. Gordon Hayward is white as well. CBS Commentator Gregory Anthony, who by the way is black, prefaces his comments with what should be an innocuous statement of casual observance when he says, "You two look like brothers." Say what?! He didn't just say that! What; does he think all white guys look the same? If that had been a white man speaking to two black men, he'd have been fired by the time they came back from commercial! He'd be offering an apology to Reverend Al Sharpton on his way to rehab!

In Bubbie's view, who cares. We've become too politically correct, but if you start a fight you'd better be willing to finish it. Don't accuse others for things unless you're willing to take equal responsibility.

Air Show

Uncle Bubba has drifted back to Montgomery and this weekend there's an air show. Being a heavily populated area of military bases, the show is a big deal. The news has warned of traffic issues and urged patience in getting around the city. Now if y'all have been reading this blog, you'll know the Uncle Bubba is not fond of crowds. It didn't take him long to decide that he'd be avoiding the area off the air show but would also keep an eye to the sky to perhaps catch an awesome sight of aeronautical daring. Uncle Bubba really enjoys flying and has soloed himself. This got him thinking, or should I say reminiscing about some great moments of his childhood. Growing up in a time that now seems so remote from our present techno-culture, it was a time of no cell phones, no PCs, no video games, and 4 stations on TV. Every so often little Bubbie's grampa would take him to the small community airport out beyond the boundaries of their town. He recalls his grampa strategically parking near some hangars and inviting him to get out of the car. Bubbie would poke his little fingers through and hang onto the chain link fence and peer through the diamond shapes to see if an airplanes were around. His grampa would keep reminding him to look to the sky to see if he could spot any. Every so often they'd get lucky and one might be circling and landing or just taking off. His grampa would always spin a tale of adventure to accompany each event; the folks on the plane may be returning from a safari or taking off to land on a far off indian reservation. Young Bubbie somehow knew that the ephemeral moments that he and grampa shared were more wondrous than the mysteries of flight they each marveled at. And now, in Bubbie's view, later in life, the lessons of a few quite hours shared with someone you love seem far more precious than texting, shopping online, virtually killing people for entertainment, and tuning out to 500 channels of stupidity.

Ode to Sweet Pea

Sweet Pea is one of a kind. One doesn't have to spend much time in the company of Sweet Pea and Uncle Bubba to notice something special, something just a little bit different. Though they've been together near about 30 years, they act like a couple of pups in love. Uncle Bubba will tell you that he can only account for his side of the relationship, and in doing so will tell you that he chooses to only focus on Sweet Pea's best qualities. And brother let me be the first to tell ya that there's a lot of them! In Bubbie's view she is still that sweet and sassy innocent little girl that he first laid eyes on... well, it seems like just yesterday. Yes, she's attractive to say the least, but there's an aura about her; classy yet hmm... I don't know. She's glamorous and earthy. She is kind and warmhearted, always ready with a big smile. She is generous to a fault and has opened her home to many a stranger or wayward friend. She won't mince words when she speaks her mind but prefers silence for quiet's sake. She's as protective as any mama bear and I dare say will back Uncle Bubba to the death. She'll defend her man whether he needs it or not.

Once when I mentioned how much I admired their relationship, Uncle Bubba flat out told me that the best feeling he ever had was when he first laid eyes on Sweet Pea and then tried to speak to her without making a dang fool of himself. "It was like floating on a cloud and I never wanted to come down." He added, "So I won't." I get it. We have the mind and the will to do anything. Why not stay in a place that you absolutely love? After all, as Uncle Bubba says, we have free will and it's our choice.

I've never spoken to Sweet Pea about such matters, but something tells me that I'd get the same response. And I can tell you that after knowing them both for so long, Uncle Bubba relishes delving into the mysteries of life and Sweet Pea is always right behind him; I dare say a match made in heaven. Everyone should be so blessed as to have a Sweet Pea of their own.

Saturday Night In The Bayou

Uncle Bubba had his fill of a long work week and a nice sized bundle of greenbacks in his pocket to show for it. He had made up his mind early in the day that he was going to twist off from the usual routine and treat himself to a little fun. After all, all work makes Bubbie a dull boy and runs completely counter to his general life's philosophy. He's told me many times that he's "tryin' to live 3 lifetimes in one."

He returned to his hotel room in Mobile for a shower and change of clothes before jumping back in his pickup and slipping under the Bankhead tunnel under the river. He rolled up to Felix's Fish House for a nice dinner of cornmeal fried oysters, crab soup, and corn & jalapeno fritters. The place was packed but Bubbie found a table in the bar. I tight little 3 piece band was playing low in the corner; he heard some Creedence, Little Feat, and Dilbert McClinton to name a few artists that the band covered. An hour, and too full, later it was time to move on. With no desire to head back to the lonely hotel he drove to some neon lights dimly shining down the road. There, jacked up on pylons, sat the Drifters bar. He could hear music playing from inside as he stepped out of his truck and it grew louder as he climbed the stairs in anticipation; this could be the worst places he's ever been or a diamond in the rough...

Stepping into the smokey bar he was surprised at how few patrons seemed to be present, but it was still early, he thought. The band was playing and they sounded good, though he can't recall their name. They were a four piece group that played much louder than the last band he had heard just minutes ago. But it was a fairly big joint and the sound carried well so it didn't seem overpowering. Bubbie saddled up to the bar and ordered a beer while politely smiling to others eying him. I should say that Uncle Bubba has an essence that tends to draw attention, whether wanted or unwanted. I can't say what it is, but something about him makes one take notice, though Bubbie is oblivious to it. Its somewhat comical but he always thinks he blends right in with any crowd. So grins and nods are passed around the room as he settles in. Invariably some local yokel will start chatting with him about where he's from or politics; neither topic is one that Bubbie cares to cultivate. But he'll politely defer. He notices an outer area through the back of the room and maneuvers that way. As he steps out onto the deck he's taken aback at the crowd hanging out and just having one helluva party and the view of the moon shining off of the water below. Before you know it it's drinks all around and singing along with the band; the parties on brother! Bubbie's view is a little hazy but he remembers singing Sweet Home Alabama (several times), shaking a lot of hands, and shooting back through the tunnel under the river. Good times in the bayou on a Saturday night!

Goin' Mobile To Mobile

Uncle Bubba traversed the Tensaw Delta like a skippin' stone skittering across bayou. He was clicking down 65 south through the cypress stands as the twin towers of the bridge, like great arched ladders rose into view on the horizon. The elevated highway merges onto 165 which mercifully carries it's travelers over the rough areas of Prichard with Mobile on the near horizon.  Its a task to take in Mobile coming in off of 165 because it literally drops you off on North Waters Street which runs along the docks on the left and the City on the right. The enormous cranes, lined up like so many gargantuan skeletal bones at a museum; quietly looming, waiting for they're prey to pass by. The city itself is the epitome of a southern port town. It's southern charms are typically grand, formal, and quaintly dignified. The historic downtown area around Dauphin St. and Joachim St. is dressed in wrought iron lace and its own rival to the New Orleans French Quarter.

Uncle Bubbie has landed and checked in to bed down for the night, but not before a nightcap at Veet's Bar on Royal St.; Doug Previto and the Family Jewels are layin' it down as usual. In Bubbie's view, a few days and nights in Mobile is gonna be a great thing.

Miss Montgomery & Hank

Here's more details from Uncle Bubba's letters from the road. He wrote...

Howdy Y'all,

Yesterday was quite a day! I checked out of my hotel in Montgomery and wanted to see some sights before leaving town. It was early so I drifted over to the cemetery and visited Hank Williams grave site. It's quite a memorial; the twin towers of Miss Audrey and Luke the Drifter! I then headed down hill and downtown to partake in the Hank Williams museum. It is a small but interesting exhibit with some maudlin and macabre things on display. Y'all, when a person dies, and you show up to see their things, y'all are probably gonna see some strange stuff. A lot of the stuff is owned and on loan from Hank Jr., like Hank's '52 Cadillac convertible, the back seat of in which he expired. OK, I could deal with that... this car was very important to him. But there written on a sign outlining the cars history declared that Hank Jr. wound up with the car and drove it to high school for 3 years! I mean, would you wanna drive around the car that your daddy died in? I'm just sayin"... 

From there I drove up to the other end of the city, which is about a dozen blocks and stopped at the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church where Dr. Martin Luther King was pastor. Interestingly it is one block from the State Capital Building. I walked around to take some pictures and there was a civil rights rally going on at the Capital Building; lots of black folks holding signs and police standing around watching them... a bit surreal. On another corner by the church, three angry black people were holding up signs of Jesus and yelling through a bullhorn at me, "the whites" for lying and mistreating them. Whoa; it must be hard y'all to be that angry all the time.

From there I drove around the block and on the opposite side of the capital, just across the street, is an old grand house that was the First White House of the Confederacy. It was the residence of President Jefferson Davis and family and is now a museum, but unfortunately it was closed. I sat on the front steps for a while and wondered what Montgomery must have been like in the 1850's and 60's. Hey, my 2nd grade teacher was Miss Montgomery! She was young and pretty. So with the morning fading I'm hitting the road and headed to Mobile. I'm gone.

Oh Montgomery

Uncle Bubba spent an oddly snowy day in Atlanta yesterday. The billions of large white flakes fell like little feathers from the sky and littered the bare winter ground with bleached crystal specks.  The cold wet dark asphalt seemed to creep up through the bottom of his shoes and chill his leg bones. After a restless nights sleep he left Atlanta this morning and arrived in Montgomery, Alabama early this afternoon. Crossing the GA / AL boarder also crosses the timeline into central time so Bubbie gained an hour. It was a beautiful day and driving along red highway 85 through the countryside was quite scenic; lots of hardwoods and farmland. Shooter Jennings' "God Bless Alabama" was cranking on the radio as Bubbie sped across the State line. 

Montgomery appears to be of considerable size with some very new parts in the east and some very, very old parts. Uncle Bubba crosses the Alabama river, twice, to get to work. He drives through abandoned brick warehouses and tall rusted water tanks that remind him a dinosaur bones. As the days here unfold, he expects to explore more and more. There is the Hank Williams museum, his burial site, and the museum which was the Whitehouse of the Confederacy. The folks seem very friendly and and typically southern polite. In Bubbie's view the most exciting adventure still lies ahead as he travels out into the outlying communities and witnesses how people really live.

Atlanta's Burnin' Down

Hey Y'all! Don't y'all just love that Dickey Betts song; "Atlanta's Burning Down"? Uncle Bubba had it fired up on the radio as he burned into Atlanta at twilight this evening after a sunny first of March. The smoke was rolling off of his tires as rounded the corner into the hotel parking lot just in time to stretch a leg and calm a nerve. On the way along highway 75 passed numerous signs for BBQ and he got himself a powerful hankerin' whilst traversing the asphalt monster... traffic was heavy and from the GA boarder north to Macon; it seemed like one looooong construction zone. Anyways, he passed the Old Hickory Restaurant by the hotel so he doubled back after check-in and got some good, old fashioned Georgia Barbeque. 3 meats, beef, pork, and ribs, mmmmm...

He come out smellin' a whole lot more aromatic than he did goin' in; like hickory smoke! In Bubbie's view, he's off to a great start on his rode trip. He just wishes y'all could be here to share in it with him. If yer game, he'll load y'all in the back of his pickup and tote y'all along!

A Day With The Duke

Uncle Bubba drove out to the ranch to visit with the Duke. It was one of those nice winter days where the sky is blue and bright beyond the bricolage blanket of alabaster clouds, and though the grass is straw brown, the air feels like Spring might show up and show out in a few days. It was one of those drives where you don’t care when you every really get there; everything looks beautiful and you notice every little detail of scenery as you speed past.

Uncle Bubba cranked on the steering wheel and turned off of the hard road onto the thin lime rock road that leads to paradise. It cuts razor straight thru a small pine forest and the bronze brown Mexicans with there jet black hair could be glimpsed between the shadowy rows of pine, hand raking pine straw into great mounds. They looked startled to see Bubbie pass by. Beyond the pines and thru a wooded pasture of lazy bovine, the sky opens up to shine brightly on the pastures that surround the ranch. The Duke's house sits poised in the middle beyond the trail of old live oak trees dressed in Spanish moss. Bubbie rounds the bend by the barn and rolls into the tunnel of oaks that stand like sentries along the drive to the main house. On the other end of the trees the dogs run up to greet every visitor with much to-do and barking; they are always happy to get company.

Uncle Bubba parked and already feeling satisfied, rolled out of the driver’s seat. It was good to be in the country; there is something so cathartic in it for him. It pleasantly touches a place in his soul that connects him to the Universe, the best in mankind and its history. The Duke is boarding some juvenile delinquents also known as the five thoroughbreds. They are tall, reddish brown young horses that are as beautiful as they are wild. The Duke has them fenced along the pasture by Bubbie’s parking place and to see them all in a line up is quite impressive. They are nervous power, flexed muscle and restless strength. They were born to run…run at full speed, and they don’t care if they have a rider, that would just cramp their style.



The Duke and Miss Dixie are as cordial and nice as ever to see their ol’ friend. Greetings are passed around to be savored and appreciated. There is no hurry to catch up, there’s always time to do that. The Duke always has chores to work and errands to run and his pardner Bubbie is always obliged to partake. The boys loaded up the white Ford pickup truck with supplies. The Duke kissed Miss Dixie and off they rode, back out the dusty lime rock rode. They talked about cattle feed mixtures, trucking operations, cow fecal testing and other pleasantries. Stopping at a filling station for diesel fuel they grabbed some fried chicken breasts and gizzards and a Coke for lunch. Yessir, life don’t get much better than that. It is living the moments of life that Bubbie is most interested in, and gathering the riches of giving. The day will pass as sure as the sun arcs across the sky and Uncle Bubba will return home to Sweet Pea. What could be better than that? The opportunity to do it again of course.

Happy New Year, 2010!!

Happy New Year! Here it is 2010 with a chance to start over once again and get it right. We can resolve to get on the good foot and be better people then just see it through. How hard is that? Do we really need someone else, some “expert” to tell us how to be better people, better Americans? What do these “experts” know that we don’t? Do y’all remember one of our national mottos; “United we stand, divided we fall?” Uh... we’re falling; what’s that tell y’all? How about our current national motto; “In God we trust.” Seems pretty straight forward to ol’ Uncle Bubba. How ‘bout we look inside our own hearts and take responsibility for the way we treat our neighbors. You be the expert of your own life. You are an expert on being nicer, kinder, better person; you just need to see it through.